


Seam by Seam

by sunbreaksdown



Series: Seam by Seam [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/F, Slavery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war with Earth has been over for sweeps, and as part of the numerous peace treaties, the trolls have returned many of the captured humans to their home world. But there are those who remain upon Alternia's surface, those who had nobody to ask for them by name, who are sold into slavery and worse still.</p><p>At the age of eighteen, Rose is finally given a placement: at the hive of one Kanaya Maryam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick oneshot, but it grew to 52,000+ words while I wasn't looking. I'll update fairly regularly, having finished the whole thing.
> 
> Warnings for physical abuse and discussions of hypothetical sexual abuse.

     The reasons the war with Earth ended are numerous and complex, but mostly boil down to trolls not wanting to waste time and resources on an infuriatingly stubborn race, inhabiting a planet that wouldn't yield much profit. In the years after it drew to a close, there were many treaties made, mostly to humour the humans, needlessly paranoid about another invasion, and even more pacts agreed upon. Most noticeably, the trolls acquiesced, deciding Earth would no longer be farmed for slavery, despite slaves being the planet's main export of actual value. This didn't necessarily negate the slave trade on Alternia itself. Something like eighty-thousand humans were returned to Earth, the ones who had been requested back by name; and then, of course, there were those without friends or family to notice their absence, and these made up the nine thousand or so still left on the planet.

     As of the day she's given over to her mistress, Rose Lalonde has been on Alternia for five years. The war has been over for four and a half. Those six months that stood between her and freedom may well have been a lifetime, and Rose sees no point in lingering on the past, if it leads to regrets. There are some parts of her old life that she holds onto tightly, however: for example, though everything around her is measured in sweeps, and those sweeps themselves are broken down into twenty-six perigees, Rose keeps track of everything in months and years. She has been there for five years, not two sweeps and five perigees. She learns the troll tongue as instructed to, partly because she has no choice in the matter, but mostly because she won't allow herself to be disadvantaged in any more ways than are prerequisite of a slave. Whenever she can, when she is alone, allowed to meet with other human slaves, or even when she knows a troll has learnt just enough English to carry a conversation and embarrass themselves in the process, she uses her mother tongue. Luxuries are not often afforded to slaves, but Rose is perfectly obedient in her actions, when it comes to menial tasks like learning how to clean recuperacoons or how to cook to appease the troll palette; and so she is given small tokens to continue her obedience.

     Pens and paper are all she ever asks for, and with these she writes, and through these she is free. She would ask for novels, for psychological magazines, maybe even a copy of the National Geographic, but she knows this would never be permitted. Too much mental stimulation is considered a bad thing. While humans are said to be useful, with their malleable think pans, easily influenced by outside forces, this same weakness leaves the potential for danger. They might snap and break at any moment, and though they have to learn that they are distinct from trolls, lower in the food chain (which is literal assertion, on some parts of the planet), they are to know that they are now part of Alternia, and their place upon it is not up for debate.

     In her time there, from the age of thirteen to eighteen, and not six to eight, as her keepers write on her profile, Rose knows that much of herself has deteriorated. Intellectually, she has not been permitted to learn anything other than troll history, culture and language, and has missed out on the most vital part of her education; the part that all her years of schooling had been building up to. By this stage in her life, she should be making preparations to join university, but university is a mere concept now, and not one that's understood by most of those around her. At times, Rose is certain she's forgotten much about Earth. The distinct landscape of green and blue, with all the little imperfections and tainted hues in between, has been replaced by that of the arid, unforgiving Alternian horizon. Many of her memories of Earth are fictitious, created by what she pours into her writing.

     No, of course there weren't wizards on Earth. That's just ridiculous, though if asked, she'd always tell a troll otherwise.

     She holds onto herself in little ways like this. She rebels by giving out falsified knowledge that seems so sound that she almost believes it herself. All of her statements are sarcastic, when she knows she can get away with it and sometimes when she can't, for much of the troll population is incapable of picking up on her particular brand. Rose takes to her role well, tells herself it's all a charade, something she's doing perfectly to passive-aggressively piss off the trolls. Not because she doesn't have any other choice but to.

     When she isn't busy actively not daydreaming about escape, about freedom (she has avoided doing so for close to three years), rewriting what she recalls of psychological experiments, though she knows she ascribes many of them to the wrong researches, and makes up some names and tests completely, Rose thinks of her mother. It's easy to blame her for all that's unfolded over the last half a decade. Easy, because it's her fault entirely. She just _had_ to go ahead and out-parent every other mother on the planet, laying down her life in front of Rose during one of the troll invasions. She couldn't be like everyone else's mother, and sensibly cower in the corner, behind a kitchen table or an armchair.

     Rose resents her for that, but today is not a day waste stewing over resentments. It's detrimental to cognitive development, anyway, and there's the small matter of finally fulfilling her destiny as a human-slave. She's being taken in by someone to be ruled over her.

     She is utterly ecstatic about the whole thing. Unfortunately, she's too busy straightening the hem of her shapeless, plain grey shirt that goes perfectly with her shapeless, plain grey pants, to remember to express or feel that much. She is transported across the desert in a motorised steel carriage with a 1.6 litre engine in the rear which runs on the compressed remnants of ancient flora and fauna alike that has been left under the natural pressure of the surface for millions of sweeps. In actuality, trolls call them cars as well, or at least have a three-letter word in their language, but Rose takes pleasure in making up ridiculously long names for their contraptions. The journey takes hours, but Rose has long since learnt not to be restless. The hours she gets to herself are few and far between, and she is in no rush to reach her destination. With her eyes closed, she spends this time thinking, dreaming without drifting off, and does not imagine that her new mistress will be a lenient one. She doesn't think about her at all.

     She is lead up to the hive by a handler she has never come across before, or else has not been given reason enough to remember his face. As he leads her up the stairs to the hive, he reminds her of her duty under his breath, how she is not given the right to complain, to put her own needs before that of so much as an insect her mistress has stood upon. Rose finds it all very patronising, having spent the last five years listening to the extended version of his lecture. 

     Though it's the dead of night, the heat all around them is stifling, and Rose doesn't like to think of how much worse it will be during the day, or how much of a bad mood this will put her mistress in. She is already adept in thinking of her as her _mistress_ , as she knows that it's best to accept the reality of some things, because at the end of the day, the truth is the truth. Her mistress is her mistress, and she is her slave, and accepting this does nothing to mean that she has to approve of any of it. Rose tries her best not to glance around, supposing that she'll be spending the rest of her life, no matter how potentially brief it may be, in this very place. She'd like to save pieces of it to take in at allotted times, to make it last. From what she does see, despite her best efforts, it is not the largest hive she's ever come across, but certainly far from unimpressive.

     She is taken to the meetingblock, which on Earth would most likely be called the parlour, where there is a small but finely crafted table sat in the centre of the room with two sofas on either side of it. Again, Rose makes no effort to look around. She picks a corner of the table to stare at, and keeps her eyes on it. Her mistress is already in the room, and though Rose thinks of her in that cold, almost clinical term, she does know a great deal about her already. Her name is Kanaya Maryam, a green blood of a special type, who's been deemed worthy of possessing a human slave because of services rendered to both the Imperial Army and the highbloods. Fashion is only stupid in troll society when it cannot be used to evoke fear, promote rank, or humiliate prisoners. Rose half wonders if Kanaya designed the shapeless grey outfit she's been wearing over the past five years, that only changes in size as she herself grows. It seems a garment that dehumanising would take some measure of talent to create.

     More interesting than her career is the fact that Kanaya, Mistress Kanaya, happens to be a rainbow drinker. When informed of this, Rose had raised a sceptical eyebrow, until it was properly translated for her: vampire. She had thought it a joke, at first, but did not laugh, because her handlers weren't deserving of her laughter. However, she soon learnt that vampires, rainbow drinkers, were something that were very real, albeit equally as rare, on Alternia; and that she was to serve as a food source. Perhaps _terrifying_ would have been a better descriptor than _interesting_ , but Rose was determined not to show fear, even though she had been left with the distinct impression that her lifespan would be a lot shorter than even she had anticipated.

     Kanaya is sat at the sofa, and Rose's handler is opposite her. She is not invited to sit, nor does the thought of being asked to do so ever cross her mind. Her gaze remains fixed on the corner of the table for some time, but there is one curiosity she cannot go without sating. And so Rose looks up, brazenly taking a long, hard look at the woman who will determine her quality of life, or lack thereof. 

     Rose has certainly been Alternia long enough to immediately discern the differences between any two trolls, but there is a lot to take in about Kanaya Maryam. For one, nobody informed her that rainbow drinkers _glowed_ , or that their skin was so brilliantly white. Too brilliant, perhaps, and Rose can't tell if her eyes hurt because it was so dark outside and she's spent so long staring at one spot, or if it's always going to be this way. She wears her hair short, and it seems to be styled, which is an oddity; most trolls are content to let their hair grow any which way. Her manner of dress is worth noting as well, for she wears a long, well-tailored dress, the same shade of jade as her lipstick. Rose reads too much into her presentation, and decides that this is her mistress's way of showing how far apart they truly are, how little Rose is worth.

     She doesn't listen to what Kanaya and her handler say. Over the years, she's become remarkably talented at tuning things out. They are talking about her, and she does not want or need to overhear it. 

     When Kanaya is finally satisfied with the product she has been appraising, she hands over a pouch of beetles and Caegars, and one corner of Rose's mouth twitches. She can't say what about the whole process amuses her, only that it is like a the sort of deal that would be made on a medieval television show she's only now remembering seeing, though she doesn't remember its name. Perhaps it was one of the numerous versions of _Robin Hood_. Either way, it strikes her as absurd, which is a running theme in her life.

     With the payment made, the handler leaves, and then she is left alone with Kanaya. Rose feels strange, like her body is light, lighter than the wind, but has been filled with smooth, heavy stones. It's a feeling she's certain she'll quickly become used to, seeing as that's how things will be from this point onwards. Kanaya leads her upstairs, says something about her resting up, and Rose still isn't listening with any particular deal of focus; it comes out sounding like a buzz, but Rose finds it within herself to find it bizarre that she's being told to sleep during the night. It often seems like she's always been nocturnal. 

     The room presented to her is basic, at the very best. Given Kanaya's general appearance, and the layout of parts of her hive she's not been able to avoid looking at, Rose concludes that it was laid out by somebody other than her mistress. She is left alone, does not say anything like goodnight to Kanaya (has yet to say anything to her, actually), and realises that it's the first time she's had her own room in half a decade. While she was being properly trained and broken in like a mare at the institution, Rose was made to share cramped quarters with a number of slaves, most notably Jade Harley. Jade was shipped off to be made use of three months ago, and Rose knows that she's never to hear from or of her again.

     But more to the point, the room is basic. There is a bed in one corner, which surprises Rose; most trolls are of the opinion that as humans do not require sopor slime, then they may as well save on expenses and make them sleep on the floor. The frame is rusted, like a relic of a long dead civilisation, but when Rose puts her weight upon it, it just about holds. She feels the slats running across the bottom through the mattress, but a mattress is a mattress and complaining isn't something she's allowed to do. There is a bed cover, made from a rich jade material, and it's the only thing in the room that seems to have her mistress's fingerprints on. Disgusting, really, as she's expected to wrap it around herself. 

     Other than the bed, everything else follows standard procedure. There is a wardrobe in one corner, though Rose will never own enough things to fill it, and has only three outfits: the one she is currently wearing, an identical one to take the place of the first one while it's being washed, and a off-white shift in which to sleep. There is a wash basin opposite the wardrobe, possessing neither soap nor a mirror, a toilet next to it, and single tap high up on the wall, which Rose knows is expected to serve as her shower. Kanaya didn't close the door behind her when she left, and Rose pushes it to, not surprised to find that it doesn't lock. It doesn't really close, either, as the latch has been removed; but if she pushes it firmly enough, and there are no windows open throughout the hive, it tends to stay shut.

     Rose places her possessions into the wardrobe, taking great care as she does so, like another fold or crease in her outfit might be noticeable, and then washes her face. Both taps produce cold water, which immediately feels tepid when she tries to drink from it. That done, feeling it become part of her routine already, Rose dresses for bed, lies down, and sleeps for as long as she's permitted to. At no point does she feel like this life is something she could wake from.

*

     She wakes at six the next morning, marking four and a half hours of sleep. It's far above her average, and so Rose tenses, certain that she is going to be punished in some way for sleeping in. The paranoia soon flees, however, when she recalls that trolls are nocturnal, and that Kanaya will not yet be up for at least twelve hours. Rose spends her free time watching the clock above her bed, and observing the framed photograph of a landscape neither Alternian nor Earthly next to it.

     An hour passes and she's proven wrong. It's not something that happens all that often. Much to her surprise, Kanaya knocks on the door, rather than immediately entering, and Rose lets out a stilted _Come in_ , hating that her voice cracks on the very first thing she ever says to her mistress.

     Kanaya chooses not to enter. She stands in the doorway, as finely presented as she was the night before, and again, the corner of Rose's mouth twitches. No one but her would ever realise it was the beginning of a smile, but this is all very entertaining to her: Kanaya doesn't know what she's doing. For a brief moment, it's as if Rose has all of the power in the situation, because Kanaya looks so very lost to her that she almost pities her. But then the reality of the matter comes to the forefront; yesterday, the tracer in Rose's collar was changed, so that it would shock her if she tried to leave Kanaya's hive without permission, as opposed to the compound she had previous been confined to. 

     After a moment's deliberation, during which Kanaya doesn't look her in the eyes, she tells Rose to get on with things at her own pace. To Rose, this is an absurd thing to say, because her own pace doesn't exist at all. If she had any choice in the matter, she wouldn't be doing any of this; wouldn't cook, wouldn't clean, wouldn't do whatever this woman behests without thinking twice about it. It isn't right for her to be given a choice in the matter, and so Rose pretends that Kanaya's told her to do it quickly and efficiently, to get to know the layout of the hive in the process, and she feels somewhat more settled for it. 

     Kanaya takes her to where the supplies are kept, and then leaves her to it. Rose watches her walk away, confident that Kanaya will get better at this business of handing out orders soon enough. They both have to be patient with one another. 

     The hive is in good condition. Good condition, because it has been cared for entirely by Kanaya for the eight sweeps and fifteen perigees and/or nineteen years Kanaya's inhabited it, rather than by someone who's been thoroughly trained in the art of removing dust from both nooks and crannies alike. Rose sets about working hard, scrubbing stone floors on her knees until her back aches, polishing surfaces until shooting pains jolt up her arms, because that way, there is no doubt in her own mind that she's done all she can, no matter what her mistress may think. There's a note left for her in the nourishblock, written out in neatly crafted English. It's a sentiment that's almost sweet.

     You May Eat What You Wish Within Reason I Will Trust Your Judgement, it says on one line, and then below it: And I Take My Own Breakfast In The Hobbyblock At Ten O Clock Exactly. The _exactly_ looks as if it has been added in after the bulk of the note was written, to make it seem more authoritative. Rose looks up to the clock, sees that it has barely gone nine, and concerns herself with her own empty stomach first. She hasn't had anything substantial in three days.

     Troll food has long since stopped seeming alien to her, no matter how much of it involves slime. There's a certain type of food called _koftui_ , for which there is no English or Earthly translation. It looks like bread, and has a very similar texture, but after several perigees of dining on nothing but it, Rose was informed that it was actually a sort of raw meat. That much doesn't put her off it, and she cuts herself two slices, which she then serves up with a glass of water, despite all that's on offer to her. She wouldn't like to overindulge and get ideas above her station.

     When she has eaten enough to ensure that her stomach won't threaten to rumble for at least another three hours, Rose prepares Kanaya's breakfast. Breakfast is easy, as all trolls tend to consume roughly the same sort of food upon waking: slime, koftui, and more slime. Not knowing exactly what consistency of slime her mistress enjoys partaking in, Rose cooks and fries various different types, because making Kanaya think she gives a shit about impressing her brings a smile to her face.

     Rose has to wait at least four seconds for the smile to fade, before she feels properly equipped to pick up the tray. In moments like this, she's tempted to stick a finger in the slime, in the hope that there are still faint traces of cleaning products caught under her nails, or spit in it, because the consistency between slime and saliva doesn't often vary a great deal; but she never does, because those are petty methods. She can cause her mistress distress in much more refined ways. Besides, she expects that Kanaya will subconsciously be wondering if she's done that very thing, and the uncertainty in the back of her mind is enough for Rose.

     Rose knocks on the door of the hobbyblock and waits for permission to enter. Not because Kanaya did the same for her this morning, but because it's expected of her. Kanaya tells her to come in, voice catching a little, as if caught off-guard. Rose can tell she isn't used to company.

     She steps into the block, and is almost so overwhelmed by it that she loses her composure. Almost. It doesn't show on the surface, because Rose manages to keep one foot in front of the other and neatly place the tray on the edge of the only clear tabletop in the block. There's just something about being there that makes her feel out of touch with herself, with the facts of her life; it is a place of creation, there's no doubting that, from the reams of fabric in every shade imaginable that hang from the walls, to what Rose swears is the scent of broken fragments of pencil lead, used to score lines as part of designs. Were she still on Earth, Rose likes to imagine that she'd have a place like this, if only in feel alone. Somewhere that was hers, where she could write until her heart was content for once in her miserable life, and not have to worry about prying eyes assuming the words were theirs to read and twist.

     None of this is voiced. Barely even thought. Kanaya thanks her for breakfast, and Rose bows her head, stepping out of the room. She quickly reminds herself that what she saw in the block is Kanaya's and Kanaya's alone, so as to be better prepared for it the next time. The rest of the morning is spent cleaning blocks that Kanaya most likely rarely ever has reason to step into, and when Rose makes her lunch, pleased to see that there are clearer instructions, this time, Kanaya requests that she return to her hobbyblock in an hour's time, once she's done with the meal and Rose has cleaned all the dishes.

     And so Rose does just that, not in the least surprised that her assistance has been requested, and kneels at Kanaya's side, while her mistress sits atop a pile of pillows. She is currently working on a garment for a nobleman, noble in name alone, which displays his purple heritage in full-force; he hopes to establish a matespritship in this particular piece of clothing. When Kanaya tells her this much, Rose personally thinks that if somebody needs an ostentatious garment to establish a matespritship, then it wasn't built on particularly stable foundations. Rose doesn't voice this. It takes her a long time to say much of anything to Kanaya, because she knows that once she begins to speak, she'll never be able to hold her tongue. After all this time, her words are still her own, no matter often she has been lashed for them in the past.

> What Do You Like To Do Miss Lalonde  
> Rose.   
> Excuse Me  
> Somehow I Get The Distinct Impression That You Are Not Providing Me With The Answer I Seek Although I Could Be Wrong  
> I Do Not Often Have Reason To Speak In English   
> It Is A Curious And Ever Coiling Tongue  
> My name is Rose, Mistress. Miss Lalonde was my mother. She never married, and refused to be known as _Ms._. There was something entertaining to her in the assumptions people would make about her age, status in life and character before meeting her, as well as seeing their expressions as the pistons in their minds desperately fired in order to reassess the situation in a matter of moments when they met in person. Or so she said, at least. Personally, I was under the impression that she simply liked a title because it made her sound younger.  
>  Hmm I See  
> With all due respect, I doubt that you do. After all, most of the information I've delivered requires knowing firstly about the nuances of Earth culture, and secondly, and more formidably, knowing about my late mother.   
> I Assumed It Was Simply A Cultural Thing I Wasnt Going To Understand Completely  
> However  
> I Would Much Rather That You Did Not Doubt My Intelligence In The Future For I Am Not Merely Going to Hum And Nod Along With All That You Say  
> I Have Taken Great Measures To Learn All That I Could About Your Home World Evident In The Fact That I Am Conversing With You In The English Tongue  
> Indeed. And your fangs give the _th_ s and vowels quite a unique flair.  
> Rose  
> Would You Kindly Answer My Initial Question  
> This, Mistress, is what we lowly humans refer to as beating around the bush. File that information away for later, as I'm certain it will be of much use to you later. And as for answering your question, before I piss you off so greatly that you are distracted from your admirable work: you already know the answer.  
> Once Again I Am Forced To Repeat My Previous Statement Of Excuse Me  
> You know what I 'like'. My talents, along with what I suppose were once considered to be my hobbies, were detailed in great length in my profile. I was described as, and I quote, “A female human of relatively considerable intelligence, recommended to those who enjoy the more frustrating aspects of life: confrontational conversation, debate, snarky horseshit; fully trained in several Earth traditions, knitting and the playing of the violin included, prone to writing; famously efficient in her work, and obedient to almost a fault; however, owners must be aware that she can be verbally provocative with her sarcastic human wiles and psychobabble, and as such, violence is recommended for keeping her in line. Lashings and stick-based beatings are particularly effective.”   
> Rose You Are Not Quoting The Profile Verbatim   
> For One No One On Alternia Would Use The Word Horse In An Official Document  
> My apologies. Hoofbeastshit.  
> Yeah Sure Apology Accepted   
> I Can See That I Am Going To Become Fluent In Human Sarcasm In No Time At All  
> So You Like Knitting Then  
> Considering the fact that I'm currently holding up a sash of what I can only assume is purple satin, but knowing this planet, is most likely some sort of animal hide, I can see why that would be relevant to your interests, so to speak. However, asking me whether I “like” something only shows your naivety when it comes to the owning of slaves; which, despite the implications of the word _naivety_ , isn't necessarily a bad thing. You see, technically speaking, it makes no difference whether or not I like anything, because I do what I am told to. That is my life. I can knit, yes, but whether I derive any pleasure from it isn't of any relevance. If you want me to knit, I will knit, and the needles will go clack-clack-clack whether I enjoy it or not. I apologise for a second time, but I have never been particularly versed in making believable sound-effects.  
> I Will Not Object To You Enjoying Things Rose  
> Oh, how chivalrous of you. Are you now going to regale me with reassurances that you won't sneak into my block in the dead of night and take advantage of me? I know slavery is a twenty-four hour occupation, and at least half of this service is expected to be rendered on our backs.   
> Rose Dont Speak Like That  
> Yes, Mistress. 

*

     Rose's fake profile aside, she gets the distinct impression that Kanaya likes the challenging conversation; likes being called out on this and that, as if it'll help her be a better slave-owner in turn. At night, Rose wonders if she's simply pushing her luck with her words because Kanaya wants her to, in order to provide some intellectual stimulation. She certainly doesn't believe that she'd talk quite so freely around anyone else after such a short period of time. Things continue in such a manner for several weeks. Rose wakes early, attends to the hive, and then assists Kanaya in her making of this and that, much of which isn't commissioned, and ends up used in various parts of the hive. It is remarkably fine work, which Rose tells Kanaya, but makes sure to remind her not to mistake admiration for her creations for admiration for her.

     She still isn't trusted to go outside, nor has Kanaya yet to feed on her. There is a supply of blood in the freezing unit, and Rose expects that her mistress wants to use it all up before she has to resort to lowly red human blood. Neither of these facts particularly bother her, and Rose finds that she doesn't object quite so vehemently to this life as she might've done. She has yet to be beaten, no matter how sorely tempted she has pushed Kanaya to become in that regard.

     Three weeks to the day since arriving, Kanaya receives a visitor. Rose is made to answer the door, and it is an order to do so, no matter how politely Kanaya asks, and greets a woman with a shock of black hair and her blue blood proudly displayed on the symbol on the front of her shirt. She grins upon setting eyes on Rose, and there is something almost repulsive about her left eye, and the way it seems to have split into seven distinct pupils. Her fangs look bigger than Kanaya's, or at least more threatening, and she pushes Rose roughly against the wall in order to pass, heading straight for Kanaya's respiteblock. 

     The troll, who Rose quickly discerns is named Vriska, speaks loudly about her, wanting to know all that Kanaya has to tell her. Rose lingers in the hallway outside, polishing off a cabinet that's so clean she can practically see her ragged reflection in it, listening to what they have to say. They are certainly familiar enough with one another, and Rose entertains herself by playing Guess The Quadrant, in the same way that she would've once analysed the relationships on poorly acted soaps. It doesn't even strike her as strange that these days, for the quadrants make so much more sense to her than human romance ever did. It's neat, far less restrictive, and easier to pick apart.

     Once they have spoken about her for a good long while, Vriska and Kanaya begin discussing more personal matters. Rose loses interest, and moves on to the nourishblock. She has yet to scrub down the stove, a task which requires all of her concentration and a fair amount of elbow grease.

     Rose likes to think that she is constantly on-guard, for a slave needs to have a firm understanding of their surroundings at all times if they are to survive. A two minute break sat at a table may allow a slave to clear their mind and work more efficiently for the next four hours, and a master or mistress would never understand that much. If the slave in question was not listening to the sounds of the hive carefully enough, then they would be caught red-handed, and promptly punished. When Vriska sneaks up on her, Rose is not sitting at a table relaxing, but nor does she hear her approach. It's all she can do not to jump when Vriska speaks up.

> Hello.

     She chooses to speak in her native tongue, but Rose doesn't know her well enough to say whether it's because she doesn't know English, or just to better exert her authority. From what Rose has been taught, a mistress's friend is a superior in and or themselves. As such, she graces her with an exaggerated, deep bow, to which Vriska howls with laughter.

> Good evening, ma'am.

     Rose makes her Alternian sound rougher than it truly is. She is fluent, by this point, and the only words she doesn't know are words that nobody uses; words she only knows exists because there are English equivalents that she discovered hidden away in heavy novels and thorough dictionaries.

> Oh, what a good little human slave! I was 8eginning to think that what Kanaya was saying a8out you knowing a respecta8le language was all a lie. Or was that sentence too long for yoooooooou?  
> Not at all, ma'am.  
> Haha, gr8. It looks like she definitely got a good one! Fussyfangs' hive is usually spotless, but this is really taking it to new extremes. At least you know your place.  
> Thank you, ma'am.  
> I'm still on the w8ing list for a human slave. I don't really mind the delay, 8ecause I always have an a8surd num8er of irons in my fire, so it's not like I notice the time ticking 8y, anyway. I'm faaaaaaaar too 8usy for that.  
> I'm certain you are, ma'am.  
> 8ut Kanaya is such a gr8 friend, and says that I can inspect you.  
> Of course, ma'am.

     Rose is agreeing with what Vriska said, rather than giving her permission. She knows Vriska neither requires it nor waits for it. She steps forward, closing the small distance between them, and at times like this, Rose is amazed by how she no longer flinches, no longer makes a useless move to protect herself. She grinds her teeth together, thinking to berate herself for it later on: she needs to keep her reflexes sharp, no matter how they hinder her.

     As expected, Vriska doesn't really know what she's looking for in her inspection. She prods her sharp fingernails against her stomach, lifts her shirt up and presses a thumb bruisingly hard against her ribcage, and Rose reminds herself that her dignity is stored not in her body, not in her flesh and blood, but in her mind, and in the things she allows herself to think. Quickly tiring of her torso, as Rose gets the feeling Vriska does of many things, she taps the toe of her boots against both of Rose's shins, and then gives one of them a swift, hard kick. Rose's knee bends, and she bites back a yelp of surprise, quickly straightening when Vriska takes hold of the line of her jaw, and then forces two fingers into the corners of her mouth. She pushes her lower jaw down, and Rose opens her mouth wide to irritate Vriska with her compliance. With her so close, Rose can't help but notice the twin wounds punctured against the side of Vriska's throat. Vriska huffs, and then begins prodding and poking at her teeth, as if amused by the bluntness of them, paying no heed to the way her roaming fingers make Rose gag until her eyes are watering.

     With a satisfied smirk, though Rose knows she's learnt absolutely nothing, Vriska stands back and is silent for a moment, as if giving Rose the opportunity to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. She doesn't take it.

> Hmmmmmmmm, not 8ad at all! You're not quite as pathetically weak as I expected you to 8e.  
> I'm glad, ma'am.  
> Ugh, is that all you know how to say? This-and-that, ma'am? Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if you really understand what I'm saying at all!  
> My mistress hasn't given me permission to speak my mind, ma'am.  
> Ok. Whatever. Do you thiiiiiiiink I'm going to go and tell her that you're fucking around and running your mouth? And even if I did, what's Kanaya going to do to you? She's waaaaaaaay too soft. So, say something interesting!   
> When you put it that way, you do make a valid point. You don't seem like the sort to run off with your proverbial tail between your legs, just because somebody's set a foot out of line. Not that I'm well acquainted enough with you to know what it is you find interesting, that is.  
> Tell me what you think of Kanaya.   
> She is my mistress. Naturally, I hold her in the highest regard. In my opinion, that is in no way biased at all, she can do no wrong.  
> You're fucking around with me, aren't you?  
> Perish the thought, ma'am.  
> You're doing it again.  
> Infinite apologies for my wrongdoings, ma'am.  
> Stop that.  
> Right away, ma'am.

     It turns out to be one _ma'am_ too many. Vriska shouts something about her really, really pissing her off, but her voice is suddenly too loud to cling to, and it booms off all the stainless steel in the nourishblock. This time, Rose does remember to flinch, if only because Vriska has taken hold of a hefty rolling pin, and wields it with as much precision as if it were part of her own body. The blow to her ribs comes first, though Rose is busy defending her head at the time. A shock of pain rushes through her, and although it is not an unfamiliar sensation, that does nothing to make it any less frightening; but she refuses to show her fear, refuses to beg Vriska to stop as she brings the make-shift weapon down again and again, all the while reassuring Rose that this is simply something Kanaya should've done in the first place.

     It doesn't take long for Vriska to tire of her torso for a second time, which Rose somehow finds room to appreciate as bile rushes up into her mouth. She knows her own body, knows when enough pressure has been placed against it to rupture something; and she knows that trolls are not equipped with the knowledge to repair damaged spleens. Both thighs are hit, and then her knees, too, but Vriska soon decides that enough is enough, and though Rose is certain she strikes her skull multiple times, the first blow is the only one she feels before the nourishblock becomes harrowingly dark around her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments so far. I'm really glad to see people are enjoying it!

     For the entirety of her childhood, as far back as Rose is able to remember, she always knew that her mother drank. It took her several years to realise that she did so excessively, after discussing the situation on the playground with peers that didn't really grasp at what she was saying, and another few years to realise that it was a problem, one much more common than people made it out to be. Rose herself has never drank alcohol, although she did push the limits of her bravery as a child and break into her mother's liquor cabinet on a regular basis. She was always intent on tasting the alcohol for herself, but never did much more than sniff it. The smell always stuck with her, and now, upon waking, Rose feels as though she has a monumental hangover.

     This, in turn, makes her waking thoughts consist of those revolving around her mother, which somehow makes the ache that's settled deep into her bones hurt all the more. She is in bed, which is a perfectly reasonable place to wake up, but for some reason, she gets the feeling that she didn't fall asleep there. It takes her several minutes to realise that she didn't go to sleep at all, at which point she promptly opens her eyes, the memories of what happened aligning themselves all at once.

     Vriska. With a groan, Rose pushes herself into a sitting position, and belatedly remembers to look around the block, lest someone's heard her let out the noise. She is alone, and there's slight reprieve to be garnered from that fact. Throwing back the covers, so as to lift at her shirt and roll up her sleeves and pants, Rose takes a moment to admire her new collections of bruises. It's been a while since she had any fresh wounds, and these ones are a perplexing collection of purples and greens. Vriska certainly means business. Rose's first assumption is that Kanaya planned for all this to happen, so that she'd be able to see what a gentle and benevolent mistress she really was, in comparison to what she could've been forced to endure.

     Rose wants to get up, to stretch out her sore limbs, but she has been placed in her bed and knows that she is expected to stay there.

     She returns to one of her few pastimes, the one that involves clock-watching. Concentrating on the way the second hand slowly ticks by does a great deal to help take her mind off the pain, the persistent throb between her temples, and again she thinks of her mother, of the Aspirin she'd give her every month when all she really needed was chocolate.

     Chocolate. Her mind is playing association games, and those too bring back a lot of memories; her mother always bought her Easter eggs three or four days after the celebration itself, when they were sold for cheap in the stores, and would hide them in awkward places around the house, where they'd no doubt melt and ruin Rose's prized possessions. Just as her mind begins to slip and her eyelids grow startlingly heavy, the door creaks open, and Kanaya pokes in her head. The light she emits makes Rose grow nauseous, though not in a way to purposely spite her. It initially strikes her as strange that Kanaya opted not to knock on the door, but then Rose realises that she must have done so many times during her bout of unconsciousness.

> Oh Good Youre Awake I Really Dont Possess The Required Knowledge To Completely Understand Human Neurology  
> Or Troll Neurology I Guess  
> But Either Way I Had No Real Means Of Ensuring That You Would Regain Your Consciousness   
> That Was Quite A Blow To The Head You Received Vriska Said It May Well Permanently Damage Your Think Pan   
> Mm-hmm. And I doubt you have much experience in feeling for pulses.

     It's difficult to keep her tone unaffected when her voice comes out so strained, like she's attempting to speak through a mouthful of sand. Kanaya says nothing in retaliation, merely disappears for a few moments, returning with a glass of water and a slice of koftui.

> Here Consume This It Will Help You With Your Recovery  
> Goodness, Mistress, are you quite certain you aren't one of those newfangled human physicians?   
> Very Funny  
> Whats Wrong Dont You Want This  
> ... I don't like this. You aren't supposed to bring me libations and offerings of questionable nutritional value. Correct me if I'm wrong, and I may well be, considering that I'm suffering from blunt force trauma, but in this little situation of ours, I am the slave, and I do your bidding.   
> Yes That Is Very Well Observed Rose  
> However As You Should Well Realise A Slave Is Of No Use To Me If They Are Dead Or Otherwise Incapacitated  
> Then your compassion is rooted in selfish motivations. That's reassuring.

     Aware that any more frivolous conversation will sap the last of her energy, Rose eventually relents, and begins making her way through the koftui in small bites, though she downs the water in hearty mouthfuls. It makes her feel better to such an extent that only serves to show how rough she was feeling in the first place, and that realisation makes her head pound all the more. She doesn't like Kanaya being there in the block with her, doesn't like having her mistress observe her eating habits, like she's some sort of pet, but she may as well be, and she can't very well order her to leave.

     And so she continues speaking once her strength rebuilds itself, not for her own benefit, but because she knows how Kanaya delights in their conversations.

> That was Vriska, then. I hate to ruin surprises, but I have to know: are all of your friends that pleasant?  
> Oh No I Assure You Vriska Is In a League Of Her Own  
> I Spent Much Of My Youth Defending Her To Our Mutual Acquaintances But Even I Am Forced To Admit That There Is A Vicious Streak In Her That Even Trolls Should Not Possess  
> It Is Like She Was The Sole Product Of A Great Slurry In The Belly Of A Mother Grub And As Such Gained The Negative Qualities Which I Supposes Are Viewed As Positive Ones In This Society  
> Or Some Other Explanation That Strikes You As Being Reasonable  
> And you have feelings for her.  
> Yes  
> ...  
> What Is It  
> Oh, nothing. I simply didn't expect you to admit it that readily, if at all. But I assume that it's only because—  
> I Strictly Forbid You From Mentioning This To Vriska Should The Two Of You Meet Again  
> Exactly that. Congratulations, that was the first time it actually felt like you were giving me a real order. My stomach is clenched in sycophantic delight.   
> Hmm I Think You Are Just Delirious  
> If that's so, then I'll use it as an explanation and run with it. Come, Mistress, lie on my hypothetical couch, which you have no way of knowing is another Earth thing, for I am certain that trolls have nothing like therapy. But either way, come, spill out depths of your unbeating heart; I am bound by law and oath, both of which have no standing on Alternia, to keep whatever I hear to myself. Oh, and by your orders, of course.   
> I Would Prefer To Sit But Alright  
> Excellent. Red or black?  
> Hmm  
> Hmm, is it? Do elaborate.   
> I Am In The Process Of Doing So Stop Interrupting Me Its Most Irritating  
> An Elaboration Is What I Will Give For It Is A Very Elaborate Situation  
> At First We Were Moirails Though I Wonder If She Was Ever Truly Pale For Me  
> Despite This All I Became Flushed Like A Doomed Hopbeast Staring With Hearts For Eyes Up At A Talonbeast Swooping Down To Make A Meal Out Of It Or Other Such Extended Metaphors  
> But Her Inability To Even Do Something As Basic As Acknowledge My Feelings Led Me Down Another Road Altogether  
> And As You Can See She Is Quite A Repulsive And Intolerable Individual Which Makes The Shortened Version Of This Revelation  
> Black  
> Interesting. We'll cover your apparently subconscious desire to be consumed whole by your potential kismesis later. Before you can conjure up a long list of passionately negative adjectives to describe her, I'd like to ask: why don't you tell her?  
> Because There Is No Telling Vriska These Things She Listens But She Never Hears What Is Being Said To Her Or Asked Of Her  
> Only What Words She Wants To Fall From Other Peoples Mouths  
> And why are you telling me this, Mistress?  
> Because You Took The Time To Ask  
> And Because You Are Making The Effort To Listen

*

     Kanaya leaves her to her own devices soon after that, only returning to bring her more food and water before retiring to her recuperacoon. She tells Rose to rest, to heal, though she doesn't say how long for; after a day spent confined to bed and a night worth of tossing and turning that only causes her to ache more, Rose finds that she is done with recovering, and gets to her feet at six on the dot the next morning. As a young girl growing up on Earth, Rose never spent particularly long lounging around in bed, though she supposes that she was never allowed what could be classed as a normal teenage-hood, and so has no way of knowing whether she would spend much of the day curled up in bed, sleeping her life away. As a slave, she knows that sleeping for longer than is strictly necessary isn't something she should have the audacity to do, and in truth, she feels worse in bed than she does on her feet, though the latter causes her much more pain.

     She has been well conditioned, and she knows this. Resting makes her feel as if she will be bestowed with a punishment greater than the one Vriska dealt out.

     Rose tends to all of her tasks as usual, ignoring the way that scrubbing the floors makes it feel as if the bones in her knees will shatter, and then her teeth will do the same, from the way she grits them together. Stretching out to dust and polish and rearrange ornaments makes her chest flare up in pain, and she's certain that at least one rib is broken; but she soldiers on, knowing that there is no one around to complain to, and moreover, nobody who can do a damn thing about it. She has her own breakfast, makes Kanaya's, and then takes it into her.

     Kanaya greets her with a frown, and asks her if she should be in bed. Rose asks if that's an order, to which Kanaya lets out a long-suffering sigh, and says that Rose should do as she sees fit.

     Kanaya calls Rose back to her side sooner than usual, before lunch has been prepared, and Rose expects that it's her way of forcing her to take it easy. She strives to make herself twice as useful as usual just to spite her, and wonders just how stubborn she has to be before Kanaya finally gives into temptation and beats her senseless. The first beating is always the harshest, or so she's been lead to believe; her handlers probably meant that from a psychological point of view, though they'd never phrase it in such terms, and Rose would very much like to get the anticipation she's racked with out of the way.

     Today, they're not working on clothing. The Empire is producing a new line of ships, and Kanaya is to design the coverings for the seats of the superior officers. As such, they have to be comfortable without looking overly so, and once it's done, the cover is to be sent to a factory and mass-produced. Though she's reluctant to admit to it, there is a certain fascination that comes with watching Kanaya work. She makes it all look so effortless, and the results are always pristine. It stirs up something like jealously in the pit of Rose's stomach. She'll never be able to create anything like this of her own, never be able to write and have it appreciated by the masses.

     When they are done for the day, and Kanaya is about to dismiss her, she hands over a plastic bag to Rose. Rose peers inside, and furrows her brow when she finds a set of knitting needles and a ball of wool inside. Her first thought is to wonder how much pressure she'd have to exert in order to drive the needles into Kanaya's throat, or as Earth lore would dictate, into her chest. Rose quickly comes to the conclusion that she'd have more luck using her hands, and doesn't really expect her to disappear into a cloud of dust.

> Oh, knitting needles. What are these for, Mistress?  
> Isnt That Much Obvious Enough They Are A Gift For You  
> I see.  
> That Tone Is Suspicious Rose What Are You Getting At  
> Nothing, really. I simply though you above trying to win my favour by plying me with various offerings after letting your friend beat me into what could well have been an inch of my life.  
> I Am Doing No Such Thing Nor Did I Allow Vriska To Do Anything  
> I Was Under The Genuine Impression That She Would Not Take Things That Far And It Is Regrettable To Once Again See That She Cannot Be Trusted  
> As I First Said It Is A Gift And Nothing More  
> Well, Mistress, you have truly won my affections. Should I prepare my pail for the upcoming event that's predestined to follow?  
> Rose  
> You Are Reading Too Much Into This And Being Intolerably Obscene   
> It Was A Gesture With No Ulterior Motives Not That You Will Ever Believe As Much As You Are Determined To Think The Worst Of Me And Goad Me Into Saying And Doing Things I Will Later Regret  
> I Thought You Might Want To Be Productive In An Enjoyable Way During Your Free Time And Nothing More  
> Ok. So you're ordering me to enjoy myself. Quite an interesting notion. If I don't enjoy myself, then I am going against your orders, and you know I'm incapable of doing that much. In Earth terms, years of conditioning have left me invariably fucked up. But if I do enjoy myself, then it is only because I'm following orders, and thus is a forced, manufactured feeling of elation. The only person here who gets any real satisfaction out of this is you.  
> Rose  
> You Are Exhausting  
> You Are Exhausting And I Am Trying My Hardest Here  
> Please Just Take The Gift And Say Nothing More About It I Dont Care If You Enjoy Yourself Or Not In Fact I Believe You Will Be In Better Spirits For Having Crushed Mine  
> If you say so, Mistress.

*

     Despite her protests, Rose makes good use of the wool and needles. She knew that she was always going to, but loudly and vehemently objecting to even the simplest positive gestures is just one of those things that lets her feel like her old self. Once her tasks are all attended to, Rose retires to her respiteblock, and tries to repress something that feels oddly like excitement as she prepares the wool for use. She wonders if she'll even remember how to knit, and then thinks of John, of the only classmate she had on Earth who truly considered her his friend, and vice-versa. He would tolerate all of her rambling about this experiment and that, her constant analysis of his dreams that were, in truth, all relatively banal and only made remarkable by what she projected into them. Now and again, however, he would make what she knew he thought were perfectly harmless and well-meaning jabs at her decidedly unusual interests and hobbies, and he was the only one who ever actually got to her; and she never told him, because it was pathetic. He was her best friend, only ever looking out for her.

     He was the one who first brought her a knitting set, and she wondered how old he actually through she was. Rose has a whole row completed before she even knows it, before she's decided on what to make. She works without rest throughout the night, knowing that if she looks tired tomorrow, Kanaya will infuriate her further by showing kindness that _must_ be feigned and letting her slack off in her duties. As she knits, she lets the constant, rhythmic clacking of the needles lull into a state of remembrance. She tries to recall what John looked like in more than general details: thick-rimmed glasses, black hair, kind eyes, bucked teeth. Rose doesn't get much further than that, however. She's spent so long on Alternia that she starts to worry when she can't remember the shape of his horns.

     When the unforgiving Alternian sun rises, Rose delivers Kanaya's breakfast with a yawn, and one small addition.

     A carefully knitted noose.

     Kanaya says nothing to her about it, but the next time Rose returns to her respiteblock, much has changed. The glass has been removed from over the picture, which Rose assumes is so that she can't shatter it and use the jagged pieces to make a bright red mess. The plug has been removed from her sink, which Rose has to admit would make drowning herself a good deal more difficult, but she never truly had any intention of using the noose. For one, the knot was part of the design, and not actually something she'd tied herself; and more importantly than that, it never would've held. Rose stands with her hands on her hips, staring up at the ceiling; there's nothing to tie a noose _to_ , and her window has been glued into place. It is neither openable nor breakable, by human hands, at least.

     Rose supposes it's touching that her mistress values her slave's services so very much that she doesn't want her taking her own life.

     The paperwork would probably be horrendous to deal with, anyway. Humans are growing ever rarer on the surface.

*

> There was a book I read as a child that may well have been beyond my comprehension at the time, that said something along the lines of “It isn't running away they're afraid of. We wouldn't get far. It's those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.” That may not be the exact quote, as it's been a long time since I last perused the novel in question, but trust that I'm not going to any lengths to twist the words for my own amusement.  
> Are You Saying That Youre Going To Harm Yourself Rose  
> What if I did? What would you think of that, Mistress?  
> Honestly  
> I Believe It Would Be Somewhat Distressing  
> I Hope To Never Drive You To Such Desperate Measures  
> Yes, with my limited resources, it would probably be a real pain to clear up. You've done a commendable job on my respiteblock, for the record, though I could easily, for example, gas myself in the kitchen or annoy Vriska for a second time.  
> Rose You Are Doing This On Purpose  
> Doing what?  
> You Are Well Aware That Isnt What I Mean  
> Of course. I'm being intentionally dense, Mistress. You're trying to say that you care for me on some personal level, aren't you?  
> Right  
> But you can't say things like that.  
> Why Not Im Your Mistress Arent I Im In Charge Here  
> Exactly that. You're my mistress, and I'm your slave. We aren't friends, nor are we even peers. Such a title isn't afforded to those who can never hope to be on the same level.   
> Thats What You Think Is It  
> No, it's what I know to be true. You are kind now, undoubtedly so, but only because you have no experience in these proceedings. You haven't been prepared for ownership. In that regard, it's almost like I outrank you. One day you will realise the power you hold over me, and you'll snap. Just like that. You'll realise that doing whatever you wish to me is your inherent right, and you'll treat me like your unpaid whore, with no choice but to willing bend over at your beck and call.   
> I Told You Before Not To Speak So Crassly  
> See? Already you're getting used to doling out orders. There was even a threatening edge to your words. You're getting better, Mistress.  
> I Have Long Since Realised That Everything You Say Is Done So In An Attempt To Make Me Snap  
> And So Silencing You Is The Best Course Of Action.  
> Smart.  
> Its All A Shame Really That You Feel Like This  
> Mm-hmm. And now you're going to tell me that you never wanted to a slave, and merely purchased one because of social pressures. That's all well and good, Mistress, but an unwilling slave-owner is a slave-owner nonetheless.  
> Hmm  
> Your Points Are Sound If Not A Little Difficult To Hear  
> And What If I Release You  
> Then you'll be feeding me to the hypothetical wolves. Howlbeasts, that is. If not killed or worse on sight, then I will be taken in by another to serve as a slave, and I sincerely doubt they will put on the pretence of kindness that you do.  
> So All I Can Do Is Keep You Trapped Here Is That What Youre Saying  
> Yes.  
> Alright If Its For The Best  
> Oh, wonderful. You've picked up on the sarcasm.  
> Really Do You Think So  
> And again! But in all seriousness, I do have something to ask you.  
> Go Ahead I Might As Well Give You Permission As Youre Going To Speak Your Mind No Matter What  
> When are you going to feed from me, Mistress? I know that's part of the reason you purchased me. Can humans not turn into rainbow drinkers, even if you drink directly from the source? Is that why you took me in?  
> No Thats Not It Trolls Arent That Easy To Turn Either  
> Then what is it? I know what grub sauce is made from, so I'm well aware that trolls aren't averse to liquid cannibalism.  
> Its Just Convenient Thats All  
> So convenient you've yet to partake in the act.  
> I Will Do As I Wish In My Own Time Do Not Think To Pressure Me Into Anything  
> I wouldn't dream of it.

*

     After forty-eight days of being there, Rose is let out into the gardens. She doesn't do anything like keep a tally etched into her bedroom wall, and just has a good head for figures. Kanaya reaches out to adjust the collar around her neck so that Rose won't be immediately shocked upon setting foot outside of the door, and for a brief, almost terrifying moment, she thinks that Kanaya's going to sink those fangs of hers into her throat.

     Rose thanks her for the extended freedom, but says that regrettably, she doesn't know enough about gardening to be of any use to her. It's likely that no troll other than Kanaya enjoys landscaping, topiary and the like, and the ins and outs of plant life on Alternia simply weren't part of Rose's education. Kanaya tells her not to worry, hands over a trowel and a fantastically blunt fork, and tells her that she's to be doing nothing more complex than weeding the soil.

     The Alternian sun may be merciless in its treatment of those native to the surface world, but just because humans can survive its rays doesn't mean it's particularly easy to do so. It's hot, hotter than the height of any summer Rose recalls living through on Earth. There is sweat on her brow the moment she steps out of the hive, and after a few steps it's rolling down her face in beads, dripping into her mouth and making her shirt damp with it. Kanaya, however, glides through it like she has some sort of in-built air-conditioning unit, not showing the faintest sign of exhaustion, even as she wields her heavy chainsaw in surprisingly delicate motions.

     As she powers through the oppressive heat, telling herself that it was about time her work showed signs of actually being challenging, Rose idly wonders how difficult it would be to jump Kanaya from behind when the roar of the chainsaw has her deaf to the rest of the world and then wrestle the weapon from her. In the end, she concludes that the heat has her at far too much of a disadvantage, and goes about venting her frustration on unsuspecting weeds.

     There is a bottle of water next to her, and without it, Rose knows that she would've passed out hours ago. She drinks from it in small sips, and to pass the time, pretends that this is her doing research for her next novel, for a passage that deals with the effects of being lost out in the desert. It will, in fact, be her fourth publication, and eagerly anticipated; in the three books she's already published, she's written dedications to her mother's memory on the front pages, who either died of liver failure or a fatal car crash. The exact cause of death varies from book to book.

     As with her sewing and making of garments and the like, Kanaya is able to spend a seemingly impossible amount of time tending to her garden. It is dark before Kanaya shows any signs of slowing, and the soil has been ripped free from weeds; and the only reason Kanaya retires back into her hive is because Vriska turns up. Upon seeing her, Rose's throat closes up tightly, and she lowers her head, suddenly having come across another patch of weeds. She hears the stomping of Vriska's boots against the soft earth as she approaches, sees her lift a leg in the corner of her eye, but before Vriska can give her a rough kick in the side, Kanaya stops her with firm, harsh words.

     They head inside, and Rose decides that she would much rather stay in the garden until she knows Vriska has vacated the hive. When she thinks of Vriska, she thinks of what she expected her life as a slave to be like, and then hates the fact that she finds reassurance in revelling in the hypothetical scenarios her mind conjures up of its own accord.

*

     Rose and Kanaya do not touch; or rather, Kanaya does not intentionally touch Rose.

     Their hands will brush from time to time, when Kanaya asks Rose to pass her a tape measure or length of thread, but those are accidental bursts of contact, impossible to be avoided and entirely expected. Rose barely pays any heed to them, except to note the way Kanaya doesn't feel as warm to the touch as she looks. She's certain that Kanaya's unwillingness to so much as place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, though it seems fairly in character for her, is because of Rose's insistence that her actions are bound to become both sexual and forceful, sooner or later. Kanaya doesn't want to allow herself that temptation.

     The truth of the matter is that Kanaya's an attractive woman. Rose knows this much, and accepts it as a fact. One of the beneficial aspects of troll society has been the chance she was given to completely let go of any issues revolving around sexuality, hers or anyone else's, and simply accept what was true to herself. It makes her wonder why anyone on Earth ever cared about something so petty in the first place. And so Kanaya is an attractive woman, who on some levels Rose is attracted to: in that the power she holds over her can be considered infuriatingly intoxicating, and she has long since concluded that her kindness is of the genuine sort. Rose will never speak of this, of course, and barely even bothers to acknowledge it, because her own feelings have no bearing on Kanaya's actions, and there is still a well of resentment lodged deep inside her chest that Rose will knows will never be drained. Her feelings towards her mistress are neither black nor red, and simply manufactured falsely, due to the amount of exposure she's had to her.

     But more to the point, they don't touch, so it seems that the issue may never make itself known; until Kanaya decides that one day, yes, she does want to feed from her slave. It's awkward, to say the least. Rose doesn't know what to do with herself, and Kanaya offers up no suggestions. Every positioning that comes to mind seems horribly intimate, and that intimacy in turn makes panic flare up in the bottom of her gut. In the end, when Rose remains indecisive, Kanaya settles on pulling her onto her lap, mouth roughly at the same level as her throat.

     There's a lot of romantic nonsense linked with vampires. Rose supposes the same is true of rainbow drinkers, as if somehow, the presence of body heat and the unique closeness will do something to negate the fact that the process basically boils down to having one's throat torn into with two razor-sharp blades. Kanaya takes a deep breath, like she's the one who needs to steel herself, and then opens her mouth, wide. Her fangs look larger than they ever have before, and in a moment of panic, Rose thinks that she'd rather have Vriska at her throat.

     Kanaya is merciful in small ways, and in this situation, decides not to drag it out needlessly. Rose feels the soft heat of her lips against her throat, and before she even has the opportunity to become unduly uncomfortable because of the foreign sensation that ripples through her body, Kanaya's teeth sink in. Rose's initial reaction is to fight against it; her head is pounding with the pain, body jarringly cold, and she goes against every fibre of restraint in her body and grasps at Kanaya's shoulders, attempting to push her off her. She has been beaten countless times, but this is something different altogether. Something horribly intrusive, and the fear that starts off in the pit of her stomach and flares up to her very fingertips makes her feel for the first time that her mind is no longer her own.

     Unfortunately, by that point, Kanaya knows what she wants, and is determined to see this through. Her arms wrap tightly around Rose, actions possessive for the first time; and Rose sees what a child she was being in trying to goad this sort of behaviour out of Kanaya, because this isn't want she wants. She feels Kanaya begin to suck at her throat, and the pain takes on a new form, all liquid and heat, filling her up as the blood deserts her. She screws her eyes shut because they sting, begin to well up, just like when Vriska shoved her fingers into her mouth; but she isn't crying. Hasn't done that in years, doesn't even remember how. She does yelp and whimper, though, and hates herself for losing her resolve to stay silent in the face of anything. Kanaya drinks her fill, and Rose tells herself over and over again that she's too focused on the task at hand to notice the way her body writhes in pathetic agony, to take in any of the sounds the tear themselves from her throat.

     A third pain comes when Kanaya withdraws her fangs, and Rose shudders as she feels Kanaya's tongue lap at her throat, catching the last few drops of blood that flow from the wounds. Rose thinks she's instructed to stand up. She tries to do so, but her knees buckle beneath her. She grabs at the arm of the chair Kanaya is say upon, but it's too late. Kanaya already has a firm hold of her elbow, is stopping from falling to the floor. Rose glances up, briefly, sees her own blood highlighting Kanaya's lips, and is dead to the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, didn't mean to take so long to get this part posted! It was supposed to go up a few days ago, and part four should be up at the weekend.
> 
> Warning for a vague reference to an off-screen rape of a nameless character.

     When Rose awakens from her second case of losing consciousness since becoming her mistress's possession, she is not in her own bed, and nor does she think of her mother. As she lies on the ground, hand grasping at her throat, already positioned thus when she came to, she thinks about nothing but how much it hurts, and how such a relatively minor procedure shouldn't have had such an adverse psychological effect on her. All things considered, Kanaya was gentle: she didn't take more than Rose could stand to lose, make sure to allow the wound time to begin clotting before moving her mouth away; had been careful not to hit her jugular, or anything else of importance.

     She blinks heavily, belatedly realising that she's been placed upon the nourishblock floor, and that Kanaya is hovering above her.

> Rose This Is The Third Time You Have Opened Your Eyes Now Could You Please Inform Me Whether You Are Currently Fully Conscious Or Not   
> Yes, Mistress. I appear to be.   
> Oh That Is Incredibly Relieving To Hear  
> I First Considered Pouring Water On Your Face I Know That Works On Trolls But Worried There Would Be A Negative Reaction With A Human  
> So Basically I Have Been Knelt Here For The Better Part Of An Hour Doing Nothing But Fret With Regards To The Current State Of Your Well Being  
> But Now Youre Fully Conscious Again Which Is A Big Relief    
> I hate that I can no longer submerge myself in a vat of denial and futilely do all I can to convince you that your concern isn't genuine.    
> Rose Really I Can Only Apologise I Did Not Realise It Would Make You React In Such A Violent Manner  
> Vriska Never Gets Like That I Didnt Know   
> Well, I expect Vriska gets off on such an unsettling sensation. But please, my stomach is already weak. Spare me your flourished tales of hatesex; I'll psychoanalyse them at a later point.    
> Well You Seem To Be Feeling Much Better   
> But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather remain in a horizontal position for at least the next half an hour.   
> Yeah Sure Do Whatevers Comfortable   
> There's something else on your mind, Mistress.   
> Is That So   
> Indeed. Do indulge me. Whatever is currently rattling around your brain, excuse me, think pan, might invigorate me enough to recall how to stand of my own accord.   
> Well Its Just That  
> You Remember Your Profile Dont You   
> ... yes.   
> It Was Really Quite Detailed There Was Even A Section On How You Reported That You Enjoyed Certain   
> Im Not Sure How To Put It  
> Untoward Fictitious Supernatural Unnatural And Ultimately Bizarre Creatures And Concepts For Instance I Believe That One Of Them Was A Giant Space Horrorterror With A Seemingly Endless Supply Of Tentacles    
> Yes, Lovecraftian horrors. I went through a phase where I refused to pick up any novel that couldn't be described either as nightmare-inducing or grimdark. What point are you desperately grasping at?    
> Oh Because Of That I Always Assumed That You Would Be Alright With Something Like This  
> Interested In Pursuing It even   
> ...   
> That Was The Wrong Thing To Say Wasnt It  
> I Am Distinctly Getting That Impression   
> Oh, how thoughtful of you. I enjoy works of fantasy about what are basically tentacle monsters from other dimensions, so that automatically means I am a prime candidate for having my throat torn into by an alien who needs the coppery iron inside to live, and will go to any lengths to get what she needs, included, or not limited to, holding her lunch in place, even as it desperately try to free itself. Again, I have to offer my congratulations. You've successfully managed to dehumanise me. In a few months, I may well not be a sentient being in your eyes.    
> Rose Stop That You Are Beginning To Upset Me You Know It Wasnt Like That   
> Upset you? I'm sorry, but did moaning into my throat while pulling me down into your lap inconvenience you in some way?   
> I Am Telling You This Is All A Misunderstanding  
> Trust Me I Already Feel Beyond Guilty About It  
> Please  
> Allow Me To Make It Up To You   
> Oh, fuck me. And now you're just offering up Stockholm syndrome to me at a reduced price. Don't you understand? This is how it's supposed to be. Fear is what you should expect and demand from a slave.    
> Rose No  
> You Dont Have To Be Afraid  
> I Wont Do It Again   
> It doesn't matter if you never so much as bear your fangs at me, Mistress. What's done is done.

     After that, the resolve to argue back drains from Kanaya. She very slowly wipes her mouth with one hand, ridding her lips of Rose's blood, and without a single word, rises to her feet, leaving the block. When Rose has strength enough to stand, she meekly pulls herself to her feet, and stumbles towards her respiteblock. She proceeds to vomit four times, and misses the sink on one occasion, knowing that she is emptying herself for reasons beyond what the shock of being fed on has done to her. Stripping off, she cleans herself thoroughly, scrubbing at her throat until it's raw, like the wounds are something that can be washed away.

     When she collapses on her bed, no longer in possession of the energy to change into her nightclothes, a strange thought occurs to Rose. It is almost like Kanaya is a friend who she's wronged, someone who she's been far too hard on and now can't take the words back. It's a funny feeling, to be so honest with herself, and admit that she knows Kanaya didn't do it on purpose; that she'd never intentionally harm her, no matter how regularly and vocally Rose insists otherwise.

     As her eyes close without her consent and she drifts off into a dreamless sleep, Rose supposes that she's lasted fairly long without her mind going to mush and unhealthy infatuation for her mistress taking over. It's almost commendable.

*

     Upon waking in Kanaya's hive for the first time, Rose had committed an act of theft. It was not of the serious sort, as she had no need to stash away any of the more expensive items in the building, for they were available to her during most hours of the day. A theft, however, was still a theft, regardless of the monetary value of what was taken, and it was ingrained on slaves that stealing an extra handful of food would be punished to the same extent that stealing the Empress's crown from her head would be. And so, the fact that Rose had taken something of her mistress's on the first day showed the lengths she was willing to go to in order to keep her own mind active, to not be dragged down by the daily monotony of the tasks handed out to her.

     In this case, what Rose took is actually of importance. It was the slip of paper Kanaya's note was written upon, and she hid this between her mattress and the bedsheets, checking that it was still there in the mornings and every night before resigning herself over to sleep. When Rose did the laundry twice weekly, because there was only so much clothing and linen two people could get through, she hid the creased piece of paper between the picture in her room and its frame. Every day as she helped Kanaya with her tailoring, Rose would glance down at the array of pencils, and feel something like fear, although infinitely more enjoyable, stir in the pit of her stomach at the thought of stealing one. Kanaya has so many that she'd probably never notice, and Rose would take it back to her room, writing in an impossibly small hand on the back of that paper. The print would be so tiny that Kanaya would never be able to decipher it, should she stumble across it, but Rose would be intimately familiar with the prose. She would tuck the pencil into the waist of her pants when she went to work in the kitchen, and use the knives there to sharpen it into a fine point.

     When she awakens the next morning, Rose considers writing Kanaya an apology note of sorts, and goes as far as to take the slip of paper out and feel it between her fingers. Of course, being as she is, lacking a pencil, this is a mere fantasy. Writing would be an easy way out for her, because she could distance herself from the situation with her carefully chosen words, be clear and precise in her meaning, and above all, honest. She'd have to pretend that it was part of a novel, or otherwise written from the perspective of someone other than herself, but she'd get out the truth clearer than she ever could with spoken words. The thought alone makes her cringe.

     In preparing herself for the day, Rose pulls a brush through her hair that Kanaya left on the edge of her bed for her one day. Slaves were never permitted that much in the institute, were expected to use their fingers to keep themselves presentable; and in raking it through her tangled hair, Rose bumps the heel of her palm against the sore, angry scabs on her throat. She has never so much as desired to have a mirror in her room, but for once, she is glad there isn't one at all.

     Despite the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that says she ought apologise to Kanaya, Rose goes about her day with a surprising sense of normalcy. She has always been able to get into a rhythm easily, and works without even having to think about it. Vriska was over two days ago, so the dirt and grime from her boots has to be scraped from the floor of what feels like every block, and this extra distraction pulls her thoughts away from the one task she's avoiding completing. She makes Kanaya breakfast without first preparing something for herself, because no matter how empty her stomach is, Rose has no appetite. Knocking on the hobbyblock door, Rose enters quietly, places the tray down on the corresponding table, and Kanaya doesn't look at her. The same happens with lunch, and then with dinner, and Kanaya leaves no clear-cut instructions of what she wants to eat. Even though Rose is long since acquainted with Kanaya's dietary habits, she finds herself at a loss without explicit orders, constantly fearing that she's preparing the wrong meal.

     If she makes a mistake, Kanaya doesn't tell her what it is. Rose spends much of the day trying to determine whether she genuinely wishes to apologise to Kanaya for an actual wrongdoing, or whether it is just another side-effect of being her subordinate. She has been so convinced for so long that the slightest offence, whether intention or merely imagined, was to be met with tactile discipline that it may well be she's desperate to make amends in order to avoid a knocking-about that will never come, but is as real as any beating in the depths of her imagination. In the end, Rose decides that it doesn't matter. She wants to apologise, she is going to apologise, and won't feel right until she does so.

     When the light begins to fade from outside and the hive is as spotless as it is every evening, Rose stands in the doorway of Kanaya's hobbyblock. After having been there for a week or so, Kanaya fell into the habit of keeping the door open, and it seems that it's slipped her mind to close it today, and thus let Rose know that she isn't welcome inside. Still, Rose stands there, and detests herself for the fact that she can't take a step inside without permission. She has no pretence of work to grant her access, no tray of food to deliver Kanaya, and her hands clench into fists at the thought of brazenly disregarding all that has been drilled into her and recklessly marching inside.

> May I come in, Mistress?

     Rose's voice is small. Her mother would berate her for it. Kanaya, without looking up from her work gives an instinctive, shallow nod, and then the corners of her mouth tug into a frown, like she already regrets doling out her permission.

     But Rose knows that it would be wrong to second-guess her mistress's actions, and so makes her way across the room, to where Kanaya is sat at her sewing machine. Rose kneels on the floor, so that she is at a lower level than Kanaya.

> I know you've already professed to not being schooled in the arts of human sciences, neither medicinal or psychological, so I thought I could share a few pieces of information with you. After sustaining injury, it's remarkably easy for a human to become delirious, both from the damage taken and the panic over what's happened. Some Earth judges would consider humans legally insane at times like these. A good example of such a trigger for a bout of delirium would be, say, considerable blood loss.   
> Are You Here To Patronise Me Or Is There A Point Youre Attempting To Make In There Somewhere   
> Sorry. Heartfelt apologies were never my forté. I suppose I should've dived straight into the point as I usually do and be blunt about the matter: I may have said some things I have since come to regret.   
> May Have  
> Yes Youre Right This Is Not Heartfelt At All   
> I understand that you're justifiably agitated with me, but rest assured, and this is something it's almost impossible for me to admit: I know that you genuinely have no desire to cause me undue harm. Or harm of any variety, all things considered.   
> Rose  
> Would You Like To Know Why I Took In A Slave I Know You Think I Make A Poor Owner  
> It Is Because I Still Possess The Mind Of A Wiggler Apparently Despite My Eyes Having Filled With Colour Close To A Sweep Ago  
> I Regret To Inform You That I Became Wrapped Up In The Fantasies Laid Upon Me By My Novels In Which Rainbow Drinkers Take In Slaves And Do Not Treat Them As Slaves But More As Equals  
> I Have Never Approved Of Slavery But Suppose I Viewed It As A Necessary Evil And Believed That I Could Do My Part To Help Out By Taking In One Slave And Treating Them Like A Person And Giving Them A Chance That They Would Not Otherwise Have  
> But From The Very Beginning You Have Been Determined To See Me Raise My Hand Against You And Continuously Suggest That I Have No Control Over My Bodily Urges And Will Do All Manner Of Uncouth Things To You In The Night  
> And I Am Trying My Best To Be Patient Because I Know It Is Not Your Fault That You Are This Way For I Know My Own People And Many Trolls Are As You Believe Me To Secretly Be  
> Whats More You Have Been Raised For Numerous Sweeps To Believe That I Am Hard Wired To Act In Such A Way And Any Behaviour To The Contrary Is Merely To Lull You Into A False Sense Of Security So That My Satisfaction Will Only Increase When I Catch You Off Guard And Have My Way With You  
> But If You Are So Insistent On Wearing Me Down Then I Will Give Up And Admit That I Was Truly Naïve In Trying To Rescue You From An Abhorrent Life Or Whatever It Was I Was Doing Its Difficult To Tell In Retrospect  
> I Will Return You To Your Handlers If That Is What You Want  
> Dont Worry I Will Not Feed You To The Howlbeasts Like A Lost Bleatbeast As You Fear I Will   
> I Will Go Through The Proper Channels And Then I Dont Know Maybe Your Next Owner Will Beat You Senseless And You Will Be Satisfied With That  
> Im Sorry  
> That Wasnt A Threat  
> But You Simply Exasperate Me Rose And I Say Things I Regret Even As My Tongue Forms The Syllables    
> ...   
> You Dont Want Me To Return You Do You   
> If you wish to be rid of me, then I can't protest. But I will say one thing: Vriska is on the waiting list for a human slave.   
> Dont Worry Ive Informed Vriska That She Will Never Be Welcome Here Again If She Lays So Much As a Finger On You I Should Have Kept A Closer Eye On Her To Begin With  
> But  
> I Honesty Hope That You Dont Regard Me With The Same Sense Of Dread Rose Its Etched Across Every Inch Of Your Face  
> I Sincerely Hope That Im Not Blind To It   
> I'm not scared of you, Mistress. That in itself scares me, but I'm starting to realise that you don't set my nerves on edge, even though everything I've been taught since being stolen away onto this planet says that I should be.   
> There Is Only One Thing I Want From You  
> And That Is For You To Trust Me Without Doing So Because I Am Your Mistress And You Are Obliged To Follow My Orders  
> In Fact I Order You Not To Trust Me Because This Is An Order But Through Your Own Freewill   
> Shit. You're giving me a migraine.

     With that cleared up between them, though things seem endlessly murkier to Rose, she feels as if some weight has been lifted from her shoulders. They work together, Rose handling the scissors to cut loose threads as Kanaya sews, and at no point does she imagine forcing the blades through Kanaya's temple or into her abdomen. They speak nothing more of the issues rife between them, and it is disturbingly peaceful for a short time. Rose never forgets her position, but feels something inside herself shift, though she is reluctant to let so much of a drop of her resentment-well be spilt and wasted.

     With it being as late as it is, darkness creeping in through the windows, they do not work for long. Kanaya instructs her to leave her to retire to her own respiteblock, and Rose gets the distinct impression that she makes it sound like an order to soothe her already tattered nerves. Rose bids her goodnight, hopes that it sounds nothing short of formal, and then promptly returns to her block, too exhausted by the day's proceedings to linger over them.

     She does have an odd sort of dream that night, in which she is either a child or a rat or something else entirely, following a shadowy figure with a set of pipes down to a river or lake or some other body of water that she knows clearly enough she's going to drown in. Upon waking, Rose takes a great amount of pleasure in analysing the hell out of the very obvious message.

*

     Several days later, they head into the nearest town. Or, more specifically, they do so during the night, because the shops cannot be expected to open either early or late for one rainbow drinker alone. They leave at the end of a day spent doing the usual household chores and sewing, respectively, and Kanaya later admits that they would've been better off waking up early and leaving while they still had all of their wits about them. They both stifle yawns as they sit in the back of a car Kanaya has called out for them, and it takes an hour and a half at a decent speed to get there.

     It's been so long since Rose was part of a crowd that as soon as she arrives in the town centre, she wonders if she's ever experienced anything like this before. Surely it was never so crowded on Earth, surely people never pushed past one another, shoulders bumping, ignoring everyone who stood in their way, having only their destination in mind. Rose feels claustrophobic, like there isn't enough oxygen in the immediate vicinity to consistently inflate all of their lungs, and she is not paranoid in thinking that everyone looks at her; they do, and worse still.

     They reach out and shove her, pinching at her arms and sides to see how she'll react. Rose expects that many of them have never seen a human in the flesh before, and closes her eyes, reciting poetry in the back of her mind to remove herself from the moment, but it's a wasted effort. Kanaya makes it very clear to the crowd gathering around her that nobody is to touch her property, and though Rose's eyes are still closed and she can't make out Kanaya's face, she knows for a fact that she winces at phrasing things in that way. Rose feels Kanaya press a hand between her shoulder blades, so as to guide her, and Rose surprises herself when she doesn't instinctively cringe at the contact.

     She might be moved to go as far as to say that it reassures her. With Kanaya in some measure of control over her movements, Rose slowly begins looking around her, and successfully manages to avoid meeting the gaze of the trolls who unapologetically stare and jeer. All at once, she's seven years old and her mother is leading her around the market, in order to pick out a range of fresh, ridiculously overpriced organic vegetables. Later, she'll spend hours sautéing and roasting them, spreading them out on a plate she's brought for that one meal alone, like she's preparing a dish in a gourmet restaurant, and then serve them up with a frozen pizza that took forty-five seconds to microwave.

     When Rose's attention filters back into the here and now, Kanaya is pushing open the door to a textiles store, explaining that this is the one shop she likes to use that doesn't deliver to the desert. Rose looks around, taking it all in because she won't be there for long, breathing in the way the store smells oddly of freshly varnished wood, and not failing to notice how hideously expensive everything is. She doubts bright, varied products on sale are a sought after item in troll society, and the man behind the counter seems pleased to see Kanaya, despite all the other trolls who have made the effort to look at her thus far displaying something that was either respect of disgust. It's difficult to discern between the two when it comes to trolls, and even harder to tell whether or not it actually matters.

> Rose If I Buy You More Wool Are You Going To Make Additional Empty Suicide Threats   
> Well, I'd hate to be a broken record.   
> Im Not Certain I Understand Your Use Of The Word Record In This Context Because I Dont See What A Documentation Of Some Event Has To Do With Making Hollow Gestures At Taking Your Own Life   
> Broken Or In Any Other Condition   
> But Im Going To Go Out On A Limb And Guess That Its A No   
> It's a no.   
> Its So Much Easier When Youre Straightforward With Me Rose  
> Pick Out What Colours You Want

     When Rose moves away from the cotton sheets she'd idly been running her fingers across and sets her eyes on the wool, there are far too many colours for her to even begin knowing where to make a choice. But she feels Kanaya's eyes on her, imagines that she is growing increasingly frustrated with her lack of ability to reach out and pick up bundles of wool, and in the end forces herself to take selection of pink and black. She thinks those colours may have had some bearing on her at some point in her pre-Alternian life, but has been wearing grey for so long that she doesn't remember.

     Rose thanks her humbly for the wool, if only to make a show of gratitude for the benefit of the shop owner and the one other customer who seems to have stumbled in there by mistake, and then carries all that Kanaya has purchased out with her. She's more grateful for the fact that Kanaya doesn't offer to help her than she is for the gift itself.

     As the two of them head back to the car that's waiting for them, Rose catches sight of something out of the corner of her eye. Plenty of trolls have diverted their attention away from her, and she follows their line of sight, until she sees something that makes her stomach turn and her heart leap in the same motion: another human. It's been so long since she's seen another that she immediately pictures both John and Jade in his place, though she's forgotten the intricate details of both of their faces, and the boy with blond hair so light it's almost white looks nothing like she imagines they did, or do. She doesn't know what's become of either of them.

     He heads in her direction, and though they're strangers who will most likely never meet again, especially not under any meaningful circumstances, she instantly feels a bond with him, like they have been friends or comrades for years. When he is close enough to pick out particular features, she sees lines of bruises spread across his face, and deep ruts left by sharp implements disappearing under the hems of his clothing; and instantly, Rose feels guilty for not being able to display the same. She thinks him blind, at first, for the dark shades that cover his eyes even in the dark, but when they cross one another's paths, he turns his head to the side a fraction of a degree, and nods ever so slightly.

     In that moment, Rose is terrified that she's going to remember how to cry. She picks up her pace, almost walking right into a young troll and dropping the armfuls of fabrics she's carrying for Kanaya, gripping them so hard that her nails may well have torn and frayed the edges. Much to her relief, Kanaya is quick on her heels, and does not so much as ask her what's wrong when she climbs into the car next to her; she is observant enough to work it out for herself, and on the journey back, distracts Rose is tales of the upcoming commissions she is to undertake.

*

     Kanaya does not receive many visitors, and instead prefers to make the trek to their hives. Rose expects this is mostly due to the fact that it is easier for Kanaya to travel, being impervious to the glaring Alternian sun, and Rose slowly becomes accustomed to being left in the hive alone. Though it may seem that she spends an unusual amount of time with Kanaya of late, in truth, it is less than a quarter of her day, and so she is quite used to being by herself, to having whole blocks reserved solely for her in the hive. The atmosphere is different when Kanaya is not around, however, and Rose finds that she is filled with uncertainty in her own actions; a lack of faith in herself, per se.

     For some bizarre reason, Kanaya trusts her. She hasn't made her wear the collar in months, and turned off the power so that it couldn't dole out jolts long before that. Rose doesn't understand why she does such a thing, because every time she's alone for more than a minute, she brings her fingertips up to her exposed neck and considers running from the front door as quickly as her legs will carry her and never looking back, though she knows that logically, she doesn't want to leave. There's nowhere better for her on the whole of the planet. She knows that it's another way that her mind has been shaped against her will; as a slave, it's been driven into her that she'll be desperate for escape, and having spent much of her youth reading case studies and psychological essays, she's driven it into herself that should a time come when she doesn't actively want to escape, it means that she's given in. She's let her captor get the better of her, and buried her own dignity.

     No matter how real the urge is, Rose never steps a foot outside of the front door unless it's to tend to the garden. Kanaya's slowly teaching her the names of the all flowers, the properties the plants contain, and much to her delight, Rose is a fast and willing learner. She still doesn't care much for plants, aesthetically or otherwise, but she likes to fill her mind with information, likes to have something to memorise and focus on.

     The only time that Rose comes close to actually fleeing is when Kanaya has been gone for less than two hours and the doorbell sounds. Rose knows there is only one explanation for it, because Kanaya always lets herself in and the delivery man leaves parcels and the like in something reminiscent of a mailbox on the edge of the lawn ring, and feels her body betray her by shaking because of it. Vriska has visited many times since Rose has resided there, has not so much as invaded her personal space since the first beating and the near-kicking, but Kanaya has always been around during those instances.

     Now she is alone, and she heads down to open the door, steadying her shaking fingertips. Vriska's getting into the hive is inevitable, and Rose decides that it's much better that she lets Vriska in than waits to see how Vriska reacts if she's made to force her way inside. Vriska, hands shoved into her pockets, looks to be in a better mood than usual, though it still probably can't be described as _good_. She isn't surprised to see Rose there, as slaves are expected to open doors and greet guests, and Rose bows her head and keep on staring at the ground until Vriska address her directly.

> Well, what are you w8ing for? Go fetch your mistress, Lalonde.   
> I'm afraid she isn't in.   
> What was that?   
> I said she isn't currently in. Ma'am.   
> Haha, relax! Stop looking like you're a8out to shit yourself. You know as well as I do that Kanaya won't forgive me if I give you the 8eating you're pro8a8ly sorely craving 8y this point. Which reeeeeeeeally pisses me off, 8ecause I don't know who Kanaya thinks she is or what she's playing at, 8ut I guess I should thank you!   
> ...   
> Yup, you heard me right. I never thought I could 8e moved to detest some8ody like Fussyfangs, 8ut with you in the equation, it's soooooooo easy to h8 her!   
> Oh. You're welcome, ma'am.   
> Whatever. Just tell you mistress that I stopped 8y, ok? Send my h8, haha.   
> I will.

     Vriska rolls her eyes, stating that Rose was far more interesting when she was willing to talk back and get smart with her, and then turns away. Rose relaxes all too quickly, shoulders dropping from around her ears, and then doesn't shut the door when she has the chance. Vriska looks over her shoulder with a grin that never spells anything good for Rose, and then taps her chin like she's just had the most amazing idea.

> Kanaya never said I couldn't do something like thiiiiiiiis.

     And then Vriska's gaze narrows, and Rose feels something slip under her skin, through bone and sinew and deeper still, until it's burrowing into her mind itself. She is left with no room to think, can only blink her eyes uselessly; that too is soon taken from her, for her eyes refuse to open when she commands them to, and then she is unconscious once again, drowning in the black of her own formless dreams.

     When Rose comes to, all that matters to her is that Vriska is no longer around. It's as dark as it was when she answered the door to her, and so Rose is unable to tell if short minutes have past, or entire cycles of days. Probably the latter, because once she's able to properly focus, she sees Kanaya sat on the steps next to her, looking as concerned as she always does in these situations.

> This is starting to become something of a recurring situation. Believe me, I gain no pleasure in taking leave of my senses and throwing out a defenceless body to a hostile planet. My sanity may be questionable at the best of times, but I strive to be subtle about it.

     Kanaya smiles a little, relieved to see those Rose is awake and well, and when she reaches out to help her sit up, Rose allows her the contact without any unnecessary tensing or flinching. They sit together on the stairs for a good long while, and Rose takes deep, measured breaths, reassuring herself that them being on the same level isn't the end of the world, isn't something she'll be berated for. Nothing is said, and at first Rose wonders why Kanaya hasn't asked if she's alright, for it seems like the sort of needless fuss she'd make. She soon realises that Kanaya most likely checked her for damage while she was still sleeping, and Rose is worried when she doesn't automatically find the thought intrusive or unsettling.

     She needs to keep her reflexes keen, she reminds herself. Needs to remain defensive and keep her wits about her.

*

     Later, Kanaya declares that she has become frustrated with dresses and shirts and pants and all items of clothing, really, and begins making hair-ties and headbands. It's not something that Rose can assist her with without getting in the way, but as Kanaya does not tell her to leave the block, she simply doesn't go anywhere. She remains sat in the corner, playing with a loose bit of string between her first two fingers and her thumb, and watches Kanaya create brightly coloured hair ornaments. It might be simple, might not actually be anything at all, but to Rose, being able to watch Kanaya work while she herself sits by and does nothing without making her feel that her heart might swell up in the panic caused is a big step for her. That is not to say that she isn't restless or entirely comfortable, but she manages to get by for a good thirty minutes without convincing herself that the negative implications of this apparent role reversal will cause Kanaya to snap and invite Vriska over to do what she herself won't.

     She's certain Kanaya knows how she struggles to keep herself together. It's more than likely palpable in the air, like a thick, unsavoury ooze seeping from her pores, spelling out the uncomfortable beat of her pulse. Looking up from her work after she's created several items that would've been of no interest to Rose as a child, Kanaya pats the space on the floor next to her, signalling for Rose to come over.

     Rose moves at her own pace, testing Kanaya's patience that has thus far proven limitless, and settles down next to her, awaiting the next command.

> Hmmm  
> Admittedly I Have Not Ventured Into The Realm Of Hair Accessories In Some Sweeps   
> Do You Think I Could Use You Well Your Cranium At Any Rate In Order To Test Them Out So Speak 

     There are mannequin heads all around the block, and some of them have wigs placed atop them at awkward angles. Rose doesn't understand why Kanaya explicitly needs her help, but knows it isn't her place to question her. She nods her head, eyes closing as she prepares for the incoming contact. Kanaya is still careful in how much she allows herself to purposely touch Rose, so much so that Rose has been able to keep track of every instance; and such situations come to a grand total of six separate occurrences, each of them unsettling in some ways and relaxing in others.

     Kanaya picks up a hairbrush, a hefty metal thing with soft bristles, and gently begins dragging it through Rose's uneven hair. Rose makes sure to brush her hair every morning and at least once during the day, when her chores have set it askew, because Kanaya wouldn't have left a hairbrush in her room unless she expected her to use it with a sense of regularity; and as such, there are no tangles to tear through. Rose lets the motion of Kanaya's careful hands lull her into a sense of security, something she isn't used to feeling, and thinks of Jade.

     Jade would insist that they did each other's hair, back when they were huddled together in their quarters with two dozen other slaves. Five humans, themselves included, and the rest were low-blooded trolls, male and female. The handlers at the institute saw no reason to separate the slaves by either gender or race, and as such, Rose would often wake to find that sopor slime had spread across the floor and got into her hair, her clothing, under her nails. She insisted on telling Jade that keeping their hair in good condition was pointless, because trolls certainly didn't care for that sort of thing and there was little that could be done to salvage their appearances, anyway.

     Jade always _shhhhhh_ ed her, though, and Rose never failed to let her have her way, relaxing into the feel of Jade's thin fingers running through her short hair; none of them were ever given enough to eat. Rose, in turn, would do the same for Jade, though her hair was longer and thicker, and took much longer to tame. There was a sense of accomplishment to be gained from neatening it all out, though it never lasted for much longer than a few hours.

     Back then, Rose was not so eager to slink away from physical contact. There was more to what she and Jade did than the braiding of each other's hair like two pre-teen girls having a sleep over, as Rose aptly put it. Jade would lean in close and rub her lips against Rose's shoulder, her cheek, her forehead; even her mouth, sometimes, but there was nothing inappropriate or base about it. It was just tenderness, given out in the only way Jade knew how. Rose never told her, but she thinks that closeness, that pocket of warmth shared between them, was the only thing that allowed her to keep hold of her sanity during her last few years in the institute.

     They would lie down with their arms around one another, though they never slept at the same time. Some of the slave trolls, angry with their lot in life and frustrated to the point where they had lost what little semblance of morals they possessed in the first place, would make their way around the cramped block when they were all supposed to be sleeping, and attempt to try their luck with the humans. There were several ways to deter them, most of which involved being on guard and ready to punch them square in the face before they could get too many ideas into their think pans, but the stubbornly persistent ones were more difficult to stave off. Rose found that one particularly effective method of keeping them at bay involved forcing herself to throw up, because human diseases were rumoured to be incredibly catching, and no one liked to think what they would do to trolls.

     Once, one of the human girls had called out to the guards for help, and had been promptly dragged out of sight, but not out of earshot. When she was eventually returned, she spoke to nobody, and all of them were left starkly aware of the fact that they couldn't rely on anyone for help, and had to make their own way in this world. Rose knew that even Jade, pressed close against her and providing her the same sense of peace as Jaspers once had, would not be with her forever.

     The memory fades, rough around the edges, and Rose's attention focuses on the room before her in all its comparative splendour when Kanaya moves to tie her hair back and her thumbs brush against the back of her neck.

> You Seem Very Pensive Today Rose More So Than Usual Actually  
> What Are You Thinking About   
> Oh, you know. The road travelled thus far. My life though a series of heart-wrenching flashbacks.    
> Is That So   
> It is. I could write a whole novel about my experiences, though it would only sell back on Earth. People are naturally drawn towards harrowing true stories; it's a sort of sick fascination humans have, whereby they feel most alive when they know that there is great suffering in the universe, and that none of it is centred around them. They momentarily throw aside their meagre problems for a brief instance, swear that they'll never again whine and moan when they lose internet connection or anything equally as petty, and revel in a tragedy that's happened to someone else, someone completely unrelated to them, but whose mind they've been granted special access to through the black and white print. They have a good cry at the victim's expense, convince themselves that they understand what they've been through, and then promptly forget the content of the book a few days later, until they stumble across a straight-to-TV movie adaptation some years later. Naturally, it doesn't do the book justice.    
> Oh Nothing Too Weighty Then   
> Although Yes I Am Unhappy To Say I Am Sure You Could Write A Gripping Novel On The Subject Of Your Experiences And Make A Great Deal Of Money   
> But of course, money would do nothing to fill the gaping hole left in my life. You'd feature, of course, under a pseudonym.   
> Oh Really What Would That Be   
> Mary Kanyam.    
> Wow Rose I Am Certain Nobody Would Ever Put Two And Two Together  
> But Then Again Nobody On Earth Knows Who I Am So I Suppose My Identity Would Be Safe Even If You Named Me Manaya Karyam   
> You'd have to be a werewolf or some such, rather than a rainbow drinker.   
> A What   
> A metamorphic howlbeast?   
> Oh

     When Kanaya has spent more time than she can justify playing with Rose's hair, she supposes that she'd best go back to the gown she's expected to have done in less than half a perigee, and has Rose turn back around and assist her. Rose feels something strange, something like disappointment; and though disappointment is by no means a foreign feeling, the fact that it's linked to Kanaya breaking off the contact doesn't sit well with Rose. Above all, a slave is not to become dependant on anything or anyone, because there should not be any single thing that they allow themselves to covet and want for their own.

     Before returning to the task at hand, Kanaya spends a good long while staring at Rose, and Rose stands her ground, knowing that it's a mistress's place to be as intrusive as she likes, with her gaze or otherwise. She knows that Kanaya would very much like her to confide in her, to tell her exactly what happened to her during her time in the institute, as if it would somehow lift some of the burden from her shoulders. And perhaps Rose would tell Kanaya these things, if this was another time and place and they were something akin to friends.

     But as things stand, Kanaya is her mistress, and she is only there to help her in her work. A tool to be used, as replaceable as the sewing machine or stitch rippers.


	4. Chapter 4

     When Rose drops enough anvil-sized hints, Kanaya presents her with a leather-bound writing book and a set of pens, inks in pairs of blue, black and red. The writing book is one that's easily sealed shut, as it comes with a padlock, and Kanaya hands over what she says are the only two keys to it. Rose secretly wonders if Kanaya has kept a third key for herself, or had another cut. There are no shortage of pads of paper, sketchbooks, pens, pencils, in Kanaya's hobbyblock, so Rose doesn't understand why she's purposely taken the effort to purchase something new. Ultimately, she decides that Kanaya has funds enough to be frivolous as and when she sees fit, and it's not her place to question her spendings.

     First of all, Rose writes a poem in rhyming couplets about the wretchedness of freedom, but it isn't very good. Not even in an ironic way. She's forgotten what it felt like, and so has no experience to pull from, and the stanzas refuse to flow. Instead, Rose writes a ridiculous adventure story to clear out the cobwebs shrouding her creativity. A wizard and a vampire team up in order to uncover hidden treasure, and on their journey befriend a cheerful octopus. It is intentionally absurd, and Rose imagines the bright, block-coloured illustrations that would go with it, and so does not pour in the detail that she usually would. It would make for a perfect children's book.

     She thinks that she'd like to challenge her mother by presenting it to her. No doubt, she'd rise to the challenge and pay great reams of money to have it professionally published, in order to write a thousand-word review. While expanding on all the hidden nuances of the text and its importance to whatever issue was currently relevant on Earth, she'd compare the prose to Faulkner, Dickens, Homer, Nabokov, all of the Brontës, and whoever else's name she could recall in a drunken stupor.

     Having successfully managed to get out of a rut, and no longer imagining that the joints of her fingers creak when holding the pen, or feeling the gentle ache in her wrist as she writes, Rose goes about it seriously. She begins writing her novels with prose so thick that she drowns in the middle of sentences, only surfacing when she can clasp onto a semi-colon as a flotation device. She uses words that nobody has spoken in decades, extends metaphors until the literal truth becomes unbelievable, and smiles when all of her paragraphs are either the same length, or look neat placed together when she crosses her eyes.

     As she writes in lieu of sleep, it begins to rain. It takes her a moment to work out what the strange noise is, initially assuming there to be a hundred fingertips tapping at her window and more pattering across the roof, for it does not rain more often than once or twice a sweep on Alternia. Far less so in the desert. The rain seems to work in several distinct groups: that which hits the windows, constant and soothing; the rain which decides not to waste any time, falls down in straight lines like stair rods and strikes the ground in clumps; and the rain that is blown off-course and clashes with the guttering that until that point, Rose had thought was for decoration. It makes the weather sound worse than it truly is, echoing loudly at uneven intervals, always threatening to distract Rose from her writing.

     It's like being on Earth again. It's something she never realised she so much as missed until it was handed back to her, and she sits with the jade green blanket wrapped tightly around her, pretending that she too is braving the elements as her protagonist does.

*

> Are you familiar with Pavlov's Dogs, Mistress?   
> I Cant Say That Its Ringing Any Bells Or That Anyone Is Currently In The Bell Tower About To Pull On The Ropes And Hope That They Are Not Pulled Into The Rafters  
> Is It A Fairy Tale From Earth   
> I do so enjoy the way you butcher our turn of phrases. But no, it's the name of an experiment.   
> See That Would Have Been My Second Guess   
> Either you're getting to know me or I'm terribly predictable. I'm not sure which is worse.   
> Well What About These Dogs Dont Try To Convince Me That This Pavlov Made Them Lie On The Hypothetical Couch That Is Apparently Often A Literal Couch   
> Oh, no. That would be absurd. Actually, you were remarkably close with what you said about ringing bells.   
> Was My Unintentional Jab At The Truth Of The Matter Why You Smiled   
> Did I?    
> Yes   
> I'll do my best to prevent it happening again in the future.   
> Rose You Are Supposed To Be Telling Me About Pavlov And His Currently Unquantified Number Of Canine Creatures Not Berating Yourself Due To An Uncontrollable Upwards Tug Of Several Muscles In Your Face   
> Didn't I tell you to remember the phrase beating around the bush?   
> This Is Not Beating Around The Bush Rose This Is Turning The Area Around The Bush Into A Quarry Due To The Amount Of Downwards Force Applied To The Ground In A Violent Manner   
> Ok. I'll give you the abridged version. Pavlov, who was actually a physiologist, as opposed to a psychologist, looked into classical conditioning. Whenever his dogs fed, he would sound a bell, so that they associated the sound of it ringing with food. Positive association, if you will. After a while, and I imagine this became somewhat messy, as well as a slipping hazard, Pavlov could ring his bell with no food present, and yet the dogs would salivate regardless.   
> Oh Look An Interesting Tale That I Am Certain You Are Sharing With Me For The Sake Of Conversation Alone Of Course There Is Not Any Hidden Meaning There   
> In this instance, sarcasm would be more efficiently delivered without the scowl.   
> Just Tell Me What It Is Rose   
> Am I expected to drool every time you hold up a bundle of wool or notebook?    
> I Thought So  
> Then We Are Back To This Again Because I Must Always Have Some Hidden Agenda Some Hope To Manipulate You Or Otherwise Darken Your Mood Et Cetera    
> Don't be so defensive. Admit it: if I wasn't cagey, instantly rendered paranoid by every gesture, no matter how small, and overly offensive in my wild assumptions, I wouldn't be myself. You'd worry.   
> Yeah Sure Okay  
> But Once Again I Will Feel Compelled To Do That Thing Where I Uselessly Assure You That I Am Not Trying To Make You My Salivating Woofbeast Or Set Out To Tame And Or Dehumanise You I Just Want You To Write Because It Seems To Make You Happy  
> Even Though You Actively Refrain From Smiling   
> Do you want to read my works?   
> That Depends   
> On?   
> Whether Or Not You Want Me To   
> I don't.   
> Then I Will Not Even Consider Glancing At So Much As The Cover Of You Stationary   
> In Fact I Will Convince Myself That You Write In A Language I Cannot Hope To Decipher   
> And you don't possess the elusive third key to the padlock?   
> Rose   
> Humour me.   
> Your Words Are Your Own And Will Remain That Way   
> ...   
> Youre Welcome

*

     The last time Rose presented a gift to anyone was over six years ago, closer to seven, and John had just turned twelve. Without her knowledge, her mother had scoured the internet and purchased a piece of genuine memorabilia from one of those films that John loved so dearly and Rose no longer remembers the title of, and then had the gall to let her take all the credit for it. Rose had not been happy with the whole set-up, but was not well-versed in gift-giving, and John seemed overwhelmingly pleased when presented with it. Determined to out-do her mother the next year, Rose had decided to instil this gift with untold quantities of sentimental value, and set about knitting a Slime beanie and a matching set of a scarf and gloves.

     Rose never had the chance to deliver the gift. She expects that they burnt to cinders when the trolls torched her neighbourhood.

     Now, fantastically out of practise, Rose finds herself faced with a great dilemma: Kanaya is soon to turn nine, close to twenty in proper years, and Rose has absolutely no idea of what to do. She can't tell whether it would be better to give Kanaya a gift, or ignore her Wriggling Day altogether. If she gives her something, anything, it will feel hollow, for everything she possesses was handed down to her by Kanaya in the first place. It's a case of recycling her own resources and passing them back to her. But if she doesn't hand over anything, it will be as if she's being intentionally spiteful, and Vriska's already made so much fuss over the upcoming event that she can't even feign ignorance on the matter.

     Eventually, Rose decides that she'll make Kanaya something, but won't necessarily present her with it. She'll take stock of things on the day itself, and see whether it seems suitable or not in the moment.

     Predictably, she knits, because knitting is what she knows. What she doesn't know, however, is what to make Kanaya. Every idea she has is immediately pushed out of the list of possibilities, because she can come up with nothing useful. Kanaya sleeps in slime, and so does not require a blanket; she creates all of her own clothing far more intricately than Rose could ever hope to, and so does not need anything more to wear; and it is constantly hot in the desert, making hats, gloves and scarves useless.

     In the end, she creates a woollen snowman. Why a snowman she can't say, except for the fact that he can wear a tiny hat and scarf where Kanaya can't, and honestly, all of her good ideas have been poured into the endless paragraphs scrawled into her writing book. She's running on empty. Still, she puts a great deal of care into the creation, knitting a tiny carrot for a nose and threading in each individual soft stone that makes up his mouth, eyes, the buttons down his front. When she's finally done, Rose wonders if she's mistaking Birthdays, Wriggling days, for Christmas.

     On the day itself, knowing that Vriska will soon be over, Rose hurries to deliver the gift. She places it on the tray with Kanaya's breakfast, which extra care has been poured into (as much care as can be poured into slime, anyway), and then lingers in the room as she waits for her to turn from the book she's reading and notice it. Kanaya's expression pulls into a perplexed shape, like her mouth is doing all that it can to mimic a question mark, and she picks up the knitted snowman by his top hat, as if the entire thing is going to explode at any moment.

     After observing it from all angles and still being none the wiser, Kanaya asks her what it is. Rose replies that it's a snowman, and moreover, a gift for her, and then feels terribly embarrassed and verging on upset for some reason she can't discern, until Kanaya breaks out into a bemused smile and tightens the scarf around his neck. She allows Rose a break from her duties, so that she can listen to her speak about snowmen, and then snow, which leads to talk of mountains and skiing and all things cheerfully cold, even Christmas, and Kanaya says that Earth truly does sound like a fascinating place. She thanks her for the gift, informs her that she certainly wasn't expecting one, and Rose is sure that Kanaya's going to lean over and hug her, or something worse; but then she blinks, and in the time it takes to do so Kanaya has leant back in her seat.

     She places the snowman atop her sewing machine, and there it remains.

*

     The incident with the hair accessories is not a one-off. Kanaya has her come into the hobbyblock, and then makes her stand straight, arms stretched out. She circles Rose and then kneels before her, taking various measurements, careful not to make too much skin contact. Rose knows that it would be far more practical for Kanaya to hoist up her shirt and wrap the tape measure around her stomach, but instead she pulls it tight over the top of the fabric, and Rose is certain it's a false reading, as extra inches of creases and folds must be added in. Rose doesn't ask her what she's doing, and Kanaya offers up no information. She is dismissed quickly enough, and Kanaya murmurs something about her being welcome to take more from the nourishblock, if that's what she needs. Rose goes back to her duties, forgetting the whole thing.

     Several days later, Kanaya calls her back in, as per usual, and points to a bundle of clothes atop one of the dressers. She often asks Rose to inspect her work, as if her opinion has any bearing on the finished product, but Rose is just about willing to admit that she has a good eye for any stitching that's gone off-course. Rose takes the clothing by its edges and spreads it out, aware of Kanaya's eyes on her all the while. There's a long pink skirt there, as well as a black t-shirt with a wizard's hat embroidered in the centre, matching the shade of the skirt. Rose furrows her brow, because Kanaya isn't in the habit of making t-shirts; there are plenty of those on Alternia already.

> What Do You Think Is It To Your Liking   
> It's for me?   
> Thats Right It Should Hopefully Fit Like A Glove As They Say   
> I see. Would you like me to try it on, Mistress?   
> If Youd Like To I Mean That Is What I Made Them For

     Rose bites her lower lip, throwing a glance around the block. She knows she should not ask too much of Kanaya, should not conjure up too many questions with which to bother her, but can't help herself.

> In here?   
> You May Use The Screen In The Corner It Folds Out To Double Its Current Size   
> Or Failing That Return To Your Respiteblock If You Consider That A Preferable Alternative

     Rose spares another glance around the hobbyblock, and decides that yes, she would like to return to the privacy of her own quarters. Back in the institute, she was not given much of an opportunity to hide what she considered to be her own, but in Kanaya's hive, she has been afforded the luxury of keeping herself to herself. It almost feels as if there is something to be ashamed of under her shapeless grey uniform. Rose bows her head down low and excuses herself when Kanaya does not directly dismiss her, and scurries back to her block as if the clothing held to her chest is something she's stolen.

     Part of the reason Rose wishes to be alone is so that she can at least indulge in the illusion that she's able to take her time. She spreads the new clothing out on her bed, over the blanket, and then removes the entirety of her current outfit. She places it back into the wardrobe, because it is still two full days before laundry is due, and then moves over to the wall and up onto tiptoes, in order to twist the valve of the creaky tap. Much of the morning was spent scrubbing down Kanaya's ablution trap, and the scent of bleach still lingers on her skin; she would hate to taint Kanaya's clothing in such a way.

     Once she is clean and dry, Rose steps into the new clothing carefully, making sure not to stretch anything unnecessarily. Though she knows she ought return to Kanaya straight away, she can't help but just stand there, letting the feel of the fabric rush over her skin. In close to six years, she has felt only a few things brush against her: the rough, stiff material of her work clothes and nightshirt, cold water, and the ever-thinning mattress Kanaya has provided for her; but this is soft, comfortable in a way she forgot clothes were supposed to be, and if she moves too much it will be distressing.

     Rose takes deep breaths, and then brushes her hair through five, six times, just to have something to focus on. The thought of not returning as Kanaya wishes her to is more startling than any other pressures her mind subjects her to, and so she makes her way back to the hobbyblock on bare feet.

     Kanaya, as obnoxiously patient as ever, is sat at a desk waiting for her. She smiles, and when her lips part and fangs show, the expression somehow manages to remain soft, entirely relieving. Rose clasps her hands behind her back, no stranger to being judged, and tells herself that this is all alright. If Kanaya has designed a new uniform for her, then so be it. That's her prerogative. Rose will go along with whatever she says, even if it does make her feel dizzy; as if she's been torn out of a black and white world and thrust into one bleeding colour from every seam.

*

     Rose is on her knees, arms pushed forward, scrubbing brush pinned to the floor by both of her hands. By this point, Kanaya has made her so many skirts that it's difficult to feel guilty about getting grime and cleaning products on them, but Rose's heart still lurches uncomfortably in her chest when she notices Kanaya's shadow hanging over her. She bites back the numerous urges she has to simultaneously turn to her and run away, and simply levels her breathing, abrading the floor all the harder, shoulder blades aching with each exaggerated push and pull of the scrubbing brush.

> Rose When Are You Going To Come To The Conclusion That The Floor Does Not Require Scrubbing Each And Every Day  
> Really It Is Going To End Up So Smooth That It Will Be Akin To One Of Your Human Skating Rinks Of The Icy Variety And I Will Be Able To Slide From Block To Block  
> Try telling that to Vriska.  
> Okay You Have A Point There Perhaps She Should Be Made To Remove Her Boots At The Door  
> I'll leave you to pass on that suggestion. If I dare to voice it, she'll chop off my feet, rip out the bones and muscle inside, and wear them as slippers, just to make a point.  
> While I Acknowledge That Vriska Is Indeed A Very Strange Individual I Get The Feeling That When You Say Things Like That She Comes Up With A Frighteningly Similar Idea And Doesnt Know Where It Came From  
> I don't think she's that kind of psychic.  
> Maybe Not But My Point Still Stands  
> Would You Please Refrain From Scrubbing The Floor Every Day   
> Youre Going To Wear Your Fingers To The Bone  
> Is this the point where you inform me that I don't have to be a slave in your hive, and that we can live together as equals, floor-scrubbing be damned?   
> Something Like That  
> You Know How Much Pleasure I Derive From Trying To Make Life Easier For You And Having You Immediately Shoot Down My Ideas   
> ...  
> Look At Least Stop Scrubbing While Were Talking  
> Yes, Mistress.  
> Thank You  
> As long as I live here, which, if I'm either fortunate or unfortunate, depending on your assessment of the situation, will be at most another twenty-one sweeps, fifty-one years, I will be your slave. You should rid yourself of this notion that I'm one day going to throw it all to the howling desert wind and sit with my feet up while gorging myself on cotton candy.  
> Do You Really Enjoy Scrubbing Floors That Much  
> You need only look at my respiteblock to understand my situation in life.  
> What About It  
> It's like a prison cell, only without the redeeming features. I have to steal the hard soap from the nourishblock meant for dishes in order to keep myself clean.  
> Yes I Have Been Meaning To Do Something About That  
> Perhaps Redecorate  
> Oh, that's convenient.   
> Please Refrain From Using That Tone Rose You Know I Do Not Lie About These Things  
> I Would Have Done So Long Before But It Is All About Timing With You   
> For Example Had I Given You An Outfit To Call Your Own So Much As A Single Day Before I Chose To I Believe You Would Have Stuffed The Clothing With Waste From The Nourishblock And Attempted To Burn It On The Stove   
> Claiming It To Be An Effigy Of Your Cruel And Unusual Mistress  
> Well, call a spade a spade.  
> So I Will Tend To Your Respiteblock When I Am Of The Opinion That It Will Not Cause You To Foster Even More Negative Feelings Towards Me  
> You could just order me to stop scrubbing, you realise. It would save a lot of time.  
> Rose  
> There Is No Saving Time With You  
> One Bout Of Compliance Leads Down A Thorny Path Of Hostility And You Become Like A Spikebeast Curled Into A Ball To Protect Itself From Predators   
> But There Are No Predators Here Rose Only Me  
> And you feed on the blood of the living.  
> Okay Perhaps It Wasnt The Best Example

     Over the next few days, Rose's block begins to change. At first, the mattress becomes far more comfortable. Perplexed by the way it suddenly feels so different beneath her, Rose turns it over, and sees a stitch run down the centre, where it's been torn open and stuffed. She doesn't sleep well that night, and continuously imagines that she'll sink into the softness and never be seen from again if she's not constantly vigilant. Next, the water in the sink begins to run warm, and the tap high up on the wall is replaced by a shower head; and then screens are brought in, to cordon off the bathroom facilities from the rest of the room. The picture she's always detested is taken down, and a thick, springy rug is laid on the floor, so that her feet are greeted by something other than rough tiles in the mornings. Perhaps most importantly of all to her, the bolt has been screwed back into the door, and there is a latch so that it can be locked from the inside. Rose opts not to use it, fearing it might jam.

     Kanaya was right. Had this happened any sooner, Rose would've convinced herself that her mistress had sinister motives; that she was blackmailing her with gifts in order to be granted passage into her block when soever the mood struck her. She would've rebelled against it all, knowing she could never be bought for such a low price, all the while ignoring the fact that she had long since been sold to Kanaya as a whole, a complete set. The bed would remain empty, the rug would be rolled up underneath it, and Rose would sleep in a ball on the floor. Kanaya would likely never realise as much, but the act of defiance was for Rose to cling to; not to move Kanaya to guilt.

     Kanaya is good to be patient. Or rather, Rose thinks, Kanaya is patient. It's an inherent trait she hatched with, and Rose sees no reason to celebrate in her ability to follow base instincts.

     On the day that marks her nineteenth Birthday, Rose finds a stack of magazines at the foot of her bed. They are old, dust-covered and dog-earred, but Rose holds them up, incredulous, like she has lost the last of the sanity she was barely clinging to. She knows that Earth goods are hoarded by collectors on Alternia, and that all sorts, often what could be dug out of a dumpster for free, are sold for high prices at markets, but Rose didn't expect to hold something uniquely of her homeworld in her hands ever again. They are psychology magazines, predictably, ranging between March of 1999 and September of 2004, and Rose allows herself to pour over them, almost forgetting that she has a hive to take care of.

     She practically has to run to get Kanaya's breakfast ready on time. She does wonder if Kanaya knows the relevance of the day, or if it's merely a coincidence, and Rose decides on the latter. Having not breathed a word about the rest of her room, Rose doesn't thank Kanaya for the gifts, having decided that she only gave them to receive Rose's gratitude.

     Three weeks later, marking the point at which Rose has been her property for a whole year, she finds four novels at her door, and it doesn't seem like so much of a coincidence after all.

*

     Trolls often take on odd titles, and Rose isn't certain how they're handed out or why. A lot of it is to do with blood, and that much makes sense. For example, Vriska says her ancestor was a Marquise and Kanaya's was a Countess, the former of which outranks the latter, matching up with the blue and green. This evening, a Chancellor is visiting Kanaya; for him, it is an early visit, but for Kanaya and Rose, they are about ready to wind down for the day. Rose can't tell what he's the Chancellor _of_ , exactly, and does not appear to have many, if any at all, redeeming qualities. Still, he throws the title around, and if Rose happened to be a nineteen year-old human girl who'd grown up on Earth with a loose tongue, she'd ask him if she was expected to swoon.

     His blood is navy-blue, and Kanaya is only as respectful as the caste system dictates she must be.

     He is there to commission her. It's strange to receive a visitor for that much, for requests are usually formally made through the post or via webcam, but Kanaya tolerates his presence nonetheless, because he has a large number of serving staff he wishes to have uniquely dressed but somehow matching, and Kanaya always likes taking on larger projects.

     Used to the hive only ever being occupied by Kanaya and Vriska, Rose frets, and begins to fear that she is slipping. In having somebody else visit, she realises that she has not been sticking as vigorously to her role as she might. Oh, she has certainly been getting all of her tasks completed quickly and efficiently, and has never been anything but a help to Kanaya, but she has allowed herself to slack off in small ways. She doesn't hold herself straight enough. Doesn't bow or curtsey as often or as deeply as she might. Rose wonders just what it is Kanaya wants from her, and if she truly wishes her to be an incompetent slave, one who doesn't know her own place.

     The sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach that comes from her own self-loathing quickly shifts up to her throat, forced there by an outside source, when the Chancellor has enough of discussing business with Kanaya and turns his attention to her. His eyes may be transfixed on her, but his questions are all directly towards Kanaya, as he either seems to be of the opinion that Rose herself is too touched in the head to hope to understand the complexity of the troll tongue, or that slaves can't be expected to give a halfway decent answer. He asks how much she cost, and what part of Earth she originated from, though he probably couldn't tell the difference between Australia and Antarctica given a map and a stack of glossy photos; he seems very interested to know which tasks she undertakes around the hive, and if there's anything unique about her biology that helps her perform certain duties; and he wants to know if she was worth her price, and whether Kanaya feels that she gets all that she can out of her.

     It's painfully obvious what he's getting at. Rose keeps her gaze level, determined to act as if she doesn't understand a word of what he's just said, and desperately wants him gone, though it's not her place to banish him from Kanaya's hive. Kanaya only answers the questions she sees fit to. Rose cost a lot, and defines a lot as more than a car but less than _two_ cars; she says that Rose is from the Pacific Ocean, as she's one of the rare human sea dwellers, naturally he must have heard of them; and that she is incredibly apt at scrubbing the floors, because surely the good Chancellor saw how smooth the finish was on the stone tiles on the way in.

     As Kanaya speaks, he nods along, murmuring _of course, of course_ , under his breath, as if he suspected that much all along. Rose bites the inside of her mouth, determined not to let her lips twitch, and then feels better for glancing at Kanaya, like the two of them are sharing a joke. Despite business having been attended to and a price agreed upon, still the Chancellor does not move. He no longer makes any effort to acknowledge Rose, and in the midst of a tale Kanaya did not request to hear about his annihilation of an enemy's lusus, he reaches out and places a hand on her knee.

     The muscles in Rose's jaw tense, but beyond that, she doesn't move an inch. She stares at the corner of the table between them, and hopes beyond hope that Kanaya will soon be rid of him. Much to her relief, Kanaya is immediately on her feet, telling the Chancellor that she thanks him for his time, and will be in contact to let him know when the project is near completion. The Chancellor shakes her hand for several seconds too long, and when he allows Rose to show him out, Kanaya follows in their wake, scowling once his back is turned.

     He descends the stairs, heads to his chauffeured car, and Rose slams the door behind him. Rose looks to Kanaya, and Kanaya looks back at her, and in the same instant, they both drop their shoulders, relaxing, like they have been putting on some act. Like Rose is not a slave and Kanaya is not her mistress, but they have both successfully fooled a fool into thinking as much. Rose wonders if Kanaya is thinking the same thing, but doesn't have time to ask. Before she knows it, Kanaya is laughing, and the noise, along with the rolling of her shoulders, is infections; Rose does the same, realises she hasn't laughed out of anything but derisive mockery in years, and is surprised to find that she remembers how.

     It's a good feeling. The whole of her feels lighter, and she doesn't have to put any thought into how ridiculous she looks or sounds, though she doesn't doubt she'll do that later, when she's alone. But then Rose's laughter slips into something else, and she remembers how angry the Chancellor's questions had made her, how the pit of her stomach had twisted uncomfortably when he reached out and touched her mistress. The laughter dies in her throat. Kanaya too grinds her amusement down into silence.

     And then they're kissing, just like that. Rose has forgotten her place entirely, and they're on Earth, in a park or her house or somewhere else safe from her mother's prying eyes and ears. Rose has her hands on Kanaya's cheeks, feels the heat flare up through her palms, and Kanaya's arms are looped around her waist, body pressed close, like she is trying to measure every inch of her. Rose has absolutely no idea of what she's doing, but that doesn't seem to matter, because it's happening with or without her active involvement; and Kanaya takes a step forward, has her pressed to the door, and Rose is glad of the support. Her mind tries to wander, but always snaps back into the moment; there are brief snippets of thought that manage to rush through her, like how strange it is that Kanaya's fangs don't catch on her lips, and how she isn't bothering to convince herself that she only wants this to happen because she doesn't want to not want it; all empty, hollow thoughts that she throws to the side.

     Kanaya's hands move to her shoulders, grasp at the fabric of her shirt, and Rose wonders if she should gasp out _Mistress_ , wonders if she'd like that.

     It stops suddenly. Rose doesn't know what to do next, and when she freezes up after close to twenty seconds of everything going unfathomably well, Kanaya takes small steps back, eyes wide, fingertips pressing to her own lips as if she's only just realising what happened. Rose sees Kanaya's throat rise as she swallows a lump, and she looks ashamed, somehow, guilty, like all that Rose has ever said is finally coming to light. Rose knows that she should reach out and wrap her fingers around her wrist, because logic dictates that it shouldn't be too bold of her, by this point, but for some reason, she can think of nothing by the Chancellor's question: does Kanaya feel as if she gets all she can out of her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we're halfway through. Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far! I hope you've enjoyed it.


	5. Chapter 5

     Rose is sat in the meetingblock, playing cards with Vriska.

     Vriska sits sprawled out on the sofa, and Rose is cross-legged on the floor, so that she remembers her place. They are playing Cheat, though most games entered into with Vriska may as well be some variation of the game, what with her vision eightfold, and Kanaya had been playing with them up until twenty minutes ago. She was forced to excuse herself and attend to some business online in her respiteblock, and so now it's just the two of them. Rose is only keeping herself together because she knows that her voice will carry to the corner of the hive Kanaya is currently holed up in.

     Vriska claims to lay three sevens. Rose knows that she's cheating, because she herself has the seven of clubs and diamonds, and though she is equally aware that Vriska can see through the backs of her cards, it isn't up to her to call her out. She places two Queens and a four of hearts, claims that they're all royalty, and when Vriska calls her bluff, she picks up all of the cards that have been placed down thus far.

> Jegus, Lalonde. Put some effort in!

     Rose always does her best not to say more than is entirely necessary to Vriska, especially when they're alone together, but unfortunately, sometimes she just can't help herself.

> I'm sorry, ma'am. I may have misheard you. Jegus?   
> Kanaya should get your auricular clots cleaned out from time to time. Jegus! I learnt his name aaaaaaaall for you.   
> Jesus.   
> What?   
> His name is Jesus, not Jegus. You seem to have misheard it, ma'am.   
> ........ well, that's just dum8. You're not shitting me, are you?   
> You know I value my life more than that, ma'am.   
> Whatever. What's that guy's deal, anyway?   
> Oh, it's not a particularly sizeable deal. He was simply the son of god who, upon being culled, rose from the dead, and now humans consume ridiculous quantities of chocolate once a year in order to honour his zombie form.    
> What the hell?

     Vriska furrows her brow, and then lays five threes. Rose ignores how absurd this is, putting down two nines that are actually two nines.

> What's more, he has a loyal band of followers. Every week, on the day we humans call Sunday, the most devout consume in a rather cannibalistic manner ritual representations of his flesh, and imbibe alcohol, pretending that it's his blood.   
> Oh man, you humans are a8solutely fucked up!   
> Agreed. The punishment for not following this lifestyle is eternal damnation. I'd tell you about the part where copulating with a member of the same sex guarantees you an afterlife rife with torture, but you might not take it well and lay siege to my planet once more.   
> See? Why didn't you tell me a8out theeeeeeeese sort of 8izarre human facts when we first met, Lalonde? I'm not so dum8 that I'll 8elieve everything you say, of course, 8ut this is entertaining! We could've got off on the right foot, haha.    
> Live and learn.

     With a smug grin, Vriska places her last two cards. Rose still has fourteen cards left. Vriska shoves the cards in the centre of the table over to her, and Rose picks them up, straightens them out, and deals again.

> I know a8out you and Fussyfangs, 8y the way.

     Busy sorting her cards, Vriska doesn't look up as she speaks. She airs the information out nonchalantly, as if it's nothing of any consequence. A comment on the weather. Rose feels her throat tighten, and for a moment, wishes that Vriska was armed with a rolling pin, rather than that knowledge. Realistically, she knows it's only because twelve months have passed since the beating that sparked her resounding fear off, and her mind is doing a good job of protecting her by not letting her recall the exact extent of the pain. Rose is not surprised that Vriska knows, for secrets between her and Kanaya are few and far between; they have a funny sort of kismesissitude, neither properly black but certainly not red; and in truth, Kanaya probably only divulged the information to annoy Vriska.

     Rose has been loathe to admit that it even happened over the last handful of days, and Vriska bringing it to the forefront doesn't do much to stop the swirling in her stomach. Not knowing what to say to her, she keeps silent, as is usually the best course of action.

> I think it's gr8! Kanaya's finally getting her money's worth, haha.   
> If you say so, ma'am.   
> Awwwwwwww, come on! Don't hold out on me, Lalonde. I want to hear aaaaaaaall a8out it.   
> ...   
> Don't tell me it was your first kiss!   
> I won't if you don't want me to.   
> Oh man, it totally was. Woooooooow. Undamaged goods. Kanaya got herself a good deal. No wonder you were so expensive!   
> No wonder.   
> I'll give you some advice, if you want. Seeing as I'm already there a8solute 8est there is, and I know how to keep Fussyfangs happy!

     Rose would like to imagine herself saying something like:

> Indeed you do. You're rather vocal about it, as well, making it seem more as if Kanaya is aware of how to keep you on your toes, or rather, your back, than the other way around.

     But instead, it comes out more along the lines of:

> That won't be necessary, ma'am.

     Vriska, belatedly remembering that they're playing cards still, lays down four of them. Rose doesn't take note of her declaration. Instead, she stares down at a familiar spot on the tabletop, reassuring herself over and over again that the kiss was an accident, something that transpired in the heat of the moment and soon flickered out. She will admit to many things, Kanaya being beautiful, her own apparent attraction to women, but will not go any further than that, or suggest that it meant anything. The kiss itself was not bad, does not make her shudder to recall; it's just the way Vriska looks at her now, the way that she _knows_.

> I'll even help you practise, if you waaaaaaaant. Get you all warmed up! Kanaya might have said that I can't touch you, 8ut it should 8e ok if you initi8 things, right?   
> Really. It's not necessary.   
> Pfff, pro8a8ly not. Kanaya's not going to do anything if you don't, and you seem pretty frigid to me! Aren't they supposed to teach you a8out this sort of thing at slave school?

     At times like these, Rose is glad Jade was taken before her. At least she knows she'll never end up with Vriska.

> Talk, dammit.   
> We're not whores.   
> What was that? Enough with the mum8ling!   
> I said we're not whores, ma'am.   
> Haha, of course not! Whores get paid.   
> ... right.   
> Anyway, here. Put this on.

     Vriska reaches into her back pocket, producing a tube of lipstick that she promptly throws Rose's way. Rose catches it, pulls of the lid, and looks down at it curiously. Blue, predictably. Vriska's at the complete opposite end of the scale to Kanaya, in that she doesn't care a jot about her appearance, but oddly enough, Rose has never seen her without lipstick on. Kanaya's influence, most likely. Rose's eyes flicker to Vriska's lips, where the left corner has smudged, showing the black of her lips and a faint hint of jade.

     Rose twists the bottom of the tube. She's never done this before.

> Why?   
> Uh, 8ecause I'm 8ored and there's not much else I can make you do!   
> You still haven't come to grips with the human think pan?   
> Don't remind me, Lalonde.

     _Don't remind me_ here roughly meaning _Shut up and do as I say_. Rose uses the pads of her fingers to ensure that her lips are entirely dry, though she doesn't know whether that'll help or hinder the process. She does her best to apply it carefully, hand steady, but knows she was never bound to get far without a mirror. Once it's on, and it feels like the majority of it is on her lips as opposed to around her face, Rose presses her lips together, because that's what her mother used to do. Vriska howls with laughter at her expense, and then the two of them go back to playing cards.

> 8ored now. Let's start a new game.   
> Which one, ma'am?   
> Fifty-two card pick-up!

     And with that, Vriska grabs all of the cards, all of them, and throws them to the floor. Glad that she's already on her knees, Rose begins to pick the deck up, grateful that Vriska doesn't expect her to feign amusement.

*

     It starts out innocently enough.

     It's two weeks later and Rose is sat in the meetingblock with Kanaya, helping her keep track of her finances. Kanaya reads her earnings from the last quarter and Rose jots them all down, ready to subtract expenses from a pile of receipts she's kept track of, mostly printed off from Kanaya's husktop. They've only been to town three times in a little over a year. Rose sits at one end of the sofa, elbow jutting against the arm whenever she writes, and Kanaya is perched at the other end; not purposely far away from her, but not so close that Rose feels unnerved.

     Like she annoyingly is in many instances, Vriska was right about Kanaya. She really won't do anything unless Rose makes the first move, sets things into motion. Rose's baseless accusations have ensured that much is certain. The idea of actually doing anything remotely physical causes her nerves to manifest as pins and needles in the tips of her fingers and all down her legs. Rose clears her throat, shifting on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other in order to be more comfortable. She looks at Kanaya from the corner of her eye, looks at her bright profile cut against the dim wall behind her, and while doing anything would be abhorrently out of character, Rose is slowly starting to believe that she was the one who launched into the kiss.

     It shouldn't even rightly be called a kiss. It was exploration mixed with elation; she is nineteen now, and expects that she should've succumbed to such base urges when she was fifteen or sixteen, if not sooner. Another example of her stunted development. That said, her sexual development has not had much of a chance to set all of her thoughts askew, considering that her experiences thus far have consisted of keeping herself and Jade safe from trolls in the dead of night and folding a pillow over her head when sleep doesn't claim her and Vriska and Kanaya don't realise just how much sound carries throughout the hive. All things taken into account, Rose is surprised her sexuality hasn't manifested itself in a bizarre, fetishistic way, like Vriska and her magic-eight balls; but then she suddenly wonders what frustrations she's specifically venting with her constant floor-scrubbing.

     Troubling.

> Rose Is Something Distracting You   
> Its Just That You Havent Written Anything In About Forty Seconds Now   
> I'm sorry, Mistress. I was simply caught in a mess of my own thoughts. Could you repeat the last two?

     She feels oddly compliant today. Doesn't see much need in riling Kanaya up so late on into the evening, when she'd much rather get the accounts sorted for the next few perigees. Rose may have a head for figures, but that isn't to say that she enjoys the arithmetic workout.

     Rose focuses back on the numbers, and for some time, it holds her attention. But then she is thinking about to Kanaya, and about how this is the miserable fate that all slaves eventually succumb to. Had she been sold to a master, Rose wonders if the imagined bond would do anything to cloud her sexuality in addition to her senses. It is an interesting line of thought, if she imagines she is cross-dissecting someone other than herself, and thinks to Neo-Freudians; and how they would say that she was a lesbian, a lesbian indeed (and all Freudians are human, and as such, have the word _lesbian_ in their vocabulary), but a lack of a father-figure in her life made her willing to cling to a master, someone would would protect and ply her with affections, providing she made certain sacrifices.

     Rose cringes, glad firstly that it is a hypothetical situation, and secondly that Kanaya has glanced away and doesn't catch the expression. Back to her miserable fate, a fate of being so cut off from the rest of society that she has thoroughly convinced herself that the attraction she holds to Kanaya is of a genuine sort. She's forgotten what other people are like, spent so long considering the atrocities _other_ slave-owners could freely commit with the blessing of the law, that she no longer realises kindness and warmth aren't mythical, elusive traits outside of Kanaya. Her exposure to Vriska only solidifies this belief.

     For some time, she had been quite certain that if there was a rescue effort, she would be able to distance herself from her time in captivity and finally see all the glaringly negative aspects of Kanaya's treatment towards her. There have been such rescue efforts, because Rose has read about them with trembling fingers when Kanaya was in the ablution trap and she was cleaning her respiteblock and noticed that the husktop was still left on in the corner. All reports state that the humans attempting to take their kin back failed miserably, but Rose tells herself this is troll propaganda.

     Now, however, Rose isn't so sure. If John was to fly in from Earth, to land on Alternia and rescue her and Jade, that boy she saw in the market and all the other humans scattered on the surface, Rose can't imagine herself being able to list anything about Kanaya that shows her in a negative light without in turn reflecting on Rose's own failures as a person. She almost thinks that she might like to take Kanaya along for the trip.

     Rose turns so that she's facing Kanaya fully. She has made a record of all of Kanaya's recent commissions, fewer in number than the last quarter but more than the first two, and looks at her straight on. She can browse through the receipts at her own leisure now that she has all the information gathered.

     Putting down the pen and paper, Rose lifts her hands and stares at them like she's only just discovered that they're covered in either blood or grub sauce. In the blurred background of her vision, she's just about aware of Kanaya raising an eyebrow, but she doesn't ask her if something's the matter. If Kanaya asked whether something was wrong every time Rose did something unusual, she'd never have space to pause for breath.

     Rose balls her hands into fists, opens them again, and then takes hold of Kanaya's horns.

     Without any fanfare, she reaches out her arms and grips onto them. It's remarkably easy, and she wonders why the hell she's never done so in the oh, thirteen, fourteen months she's been there. As an aside, Rose hates that she's slowly giving up on keeping count, knowing that soon the months will blur into years and the years into decades. To her credit, Kanaya doesn't seem particularly alarmed. She looks up, as if hoping to see Rose's hands folded around her horns, but says nothing. As ever, she gives Rose space, and it's hardly as if Rose has the upper body strength to rip them clean off.

     Rose has never touched a troll's horns before. She's felt them prod and poke her in the back while they were all on the floor in the institute, but she's never had reason to run her hands across them. It's interesting. From the look of them, she had expected them to be a lot smoother than they actually are; she runs her thumbs up and down, and finds that there are hundreds of rings of raised edges around them, like the centre of an oak tree cut down. This much appears to be natural, considering that the ridges are more pronounced where the shades of orange become distinct, and there are countless imperfections running from tip to base, hair-thin scratches where they have cracked with growth.

     With a thoughtful hum, Rose glances down at Kanaya, to decide from her expression whether she ought stop her exploration there. Kanaya's eyes have fluttered to a close, and Rose sees that her hands are bundled into fists at her knees, as if restraining herself. She supposes that Kanaya had her fun with the flat top of her head in playing with her hair, and so continues onwards.

     Hooking a thumb under the jutting-out curve of Kanaya's left horn, Rose pushes the tip up against it to see if the skin will split. It does turn whiter, but that's the extent of it. Half disappointed, she moves her hands down to the bases of both horns, fingertips pressing to the raised ring of flesh seemingly holding the horns in place, and Kanaya starts, eyes screwing shut all the tighter, biting down hard on her lower lip.

> Rose I Feel It Is Imperative To Inform You That The Bases Of Horns Are  
> Well  
> That Is  
> Um   
> Erogenous zones?

     Kanaya nods slowly, and Rose merely shrugs her shoulders. She already knew that much, information offered up by Vriska some months ago, which is why her fingers were drawn there. She wants to see what sort of reactions she can draw from Kanaya, wants to see how far she will allow her to go. Seeing as Kanaya does not seem to be tensing uncomfortably, though Rose is no expert in the pulling taut of muscles at such close quarters, Rose assumes that this is reason enough to continue.

     Kanaya's short hair makes it easy for Rose to stroke the base of her horns, fingers and thumbs brushing back and forth. She actively has to remind herself to be gentle; she is trying to see how long Kanaya can remain silent for here, not attempting to get out some stubborn stain. Kanaya simply tilts her head, first towards Rose's fingers and then letting it lull back, resting on the edge of the sofa. Rose supposes that she'll have to try harder, applies more pressure, and is rewarded with a quiet gasp for her efforts. To which a heat flutters from the pit of her stomach to between her legs, and it is not an unfamiliar sensation, just one Rose has gone to great lengths to block out in previous years.

     Despite this, she remains focused. She continues to rub at the sensitive skin beneath her fingertips, and Kanaya submerges into the feeling, heaving heavy breaths and soft moans that Rose has to strain to hear. She sees Kanaya lift her hands, as if moving to take hold of her hips or otherwise, but then apparently things better of it, drops them to her sides, and the grasps at the cushions. Rose is disappointed that Kanaya has not yet been pushed far enough to disregard her feelings, though she knows that Kanaya's hands on her would make her weak, make her run to her respiteblock and pull the latch across.

> Do you want me to touch you more, Mistress?   
> I Want You To  
> Do As You Please Rose Nothing More Than That

     Once again, Kanaya insists that Rose does what she wants. Insists on giving her a choice in the matter and thus only clouds her mind further. Rose shakes her head, renewing her focus, and decides that she'd very much like to pretend from her own sake that Kanaya said yes, nothing more and nothing less.

     Removing her hands from Kanaya's horns, Rose reaches down to her lap, to hitch up her skirt. Kanaya takes a deep breath, the pad of her tongue pressing to each of her dry lips in turn, and Rose would kiss her if it felt appropriate. She still imagines herself with blue smeared across her mouth, and has been having all sorts of dreams revolving around drowning because of it. She can't press her mouth to Kanaya's and make her breathe in the stagnant water trapped behind her own lips. With Kanaya's long skirt around her waist, Rose wastes no more time reflecting on murky waters or seaweed wrapped around her ankles, and takes in the sight of how much skin has been exposed to her; it glows almost as brightly as Kanaya's face does, causing the palms of Rose's hands to become clammy as she presses her hands to her thighs.

> This is the part whereby you have to order me around, Mistress. I hate to be so needy at such a tense moment with this much pronounced sexual tension, but I won't be able to work otherwise.   
> I Can Guide You Nothing More  
> I'll take it.

     Some part of Rose scolds herself. Mostly, though, she's just impressed that she's managed to get this far without buckling. There are a few things that make it all possible, however, so perfectly set up that Rose almost believes that things going this way was Kanaya's plan all along. Their positioning helps: they are both on the sofa, and while Kanaya is leant back, Rose is on her knees. It's sufficiently subservient without holding Rose down and binding her, making her feel restricted, claustrophobic. Kanaya lifts her hips towards Rose's hands, grunts and groans when Rose splays her fingertips out, and then she really is giving out orders, not simply guiding her: she says to move up, no, right there, harder, deeper, and Rose is glad that Kanaya humours her so.

     It's alright. It's alright. Rose drives her fingers in, and repeats that over and over again, fully believing it. Kanaya is her mistress, and Kanaya is the one taking pleasure here. Rose admits that there is a certain amount of fascination she garners for this, and she is learning as much about herself as she does about Kanaya, but none of this is for her own benefit. She is the one working, the one with an aching wrist and tense muscles racking the length of her arm.

     When Rose is finished, efficient as she is in all her work, though perhaps not as quick, she pulls Kanaya's skirt back down, taking the liberty to smooth out creases with one thumb as Kanaya recovers. There is something pretty about her, breathless like that; and the thought comes as a surprise to Rose, as she has been observing this all scientifically until this point, and has never found reason to describe anyone or anything as pretty in the past. She supposes she can spend a moment staring at Kanaya to justify this assertion. Kanaya's lips are black today, unnaturally so even for a troll, and it makes quite a stark contrast against her perfectly white skin. Her lowered eyelashes have the same effect.

     She would be pleasant to look at, even without the make-up. Rose supposes that she's never looked that closely in the past, initially deciding that she had all the time in the world to take in her appearance, and then promptly forgetting to absorb the tiny details that make up a whole as their days together ticked by. Rose looks away, resuming the position she took when taking notes from Kanaya. She folds her hands together, focuses on the lines where her fingers bend, and waits of Kanaya to compose herself.

     It doesn't take long. Rose doesn't know how long it's supposed to take, but it doesn't seem like a significant amount of time at all. Nothing creeps into the atmosphere, nothing like awkwardness or uncertainty, but then Rose wonders if she's simply too hardened against it. Kanaya leans in closer, places both hands on her shoulders so as to turn her towards her, and kisses her. Her lips remain pressed together, and they are dry where she's been breathing so heavily; it reminds her of Jade. Rose rubs her dry mouth back against Kanaya's, but Kanaya must pick up on the way she's riddled with tension, because she tries nothing more after that.

     They go back to the accounts straight away. Rose is amazed to find that she still feels like herself, that the taste of bile does not flood her mouth when she thinks of Kanaya; it is as if she's given herself over to Kanaya without losing any of the parts that matter in the process.

*

     The only boy Rose Lalonde ever daydreams about is the white-haired one from the market.

     She no longer allows herself to think of Earth in a way that revolves around returning to it, and so she does not meet him there. Such fantasies could be tolerated throughout her first few years on Alternia, and between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, clinging to the desperate need to be rescued so tightly was more or less acceptable. The war ended into six months of her being on the planet, during which time she had not been put to much use; the human prisoners, greater in number then, had been left in large crates and cages, until it was decided what would actually be done with them, how much they would be sold for, how they would be ingrained to the new culture, and so on; and so for these six months she was ferried around, often in the dark, feeling the elbows and knees of humans far older than her jut into her sides. And sometimes it was worse. Sometimes people would reach out intentionally, but Rose was young, vulnerable, and in the same way people would try to take advantage of her, many more, those who had been torn from their own children, felt compelled to protect her. _It could always be worse_ was something she lived by, for a little while.

     On more than one occasion, but not as regularly as Rose would make out in the present, the trolls went for long days without feeding the slaves. Although they weren't slaves then, technically speaking; just prisoners. This lack of feeding, despite making Rose and the others believe that they would starve, was not intentionally cruel. The trolls simply did not know how often humans required nourishment, or what they ate. While the war with Alternia had been raging on since she was eight, it was an off-world business, fought entirely in space. The trolls hadn't reached Earth, hadn't landed upon its surface, until she was twelve and a quarter; and she had been thirteen and a month when they invaded her State. Rose remembers waking up, and despite the rioting outside, had first learnt of how close they were through the local news, which promptly cut out halfway through, like in all good science fiction movies.

     And her mother said that things had really gone to shit, told her to put down her knitting, and taught her how to use a rifle.

     When they were moved from the cages and crates to more stable housing, an old army base that was used when trolls used to wage war upon Alternia against other trolls, Rose felt more settled. Meals came at more predictable intervals, though much of it was slime-based and did not sit well with her stomach, leaving her feel hungrier than before. But being in one place was good; it meant that they would be easier to track down. And people would be looking for them, for she had heard for months on the news stories of entire crowds being lifted up in enemy ships. It was all a matter of waiting, and with Earth technology not being as advanced as what the trolls had used to transport them, she may well be waiting another three or four months for help to arrive.

     She could last for three or four months. During the nights, when they soon learnt they were supposed to be awake, Rose sat near the heavy iron doors of their lodgings, listening to trolls talking from inside, in an effort to guess at the context from tone alone. During the day that wasn't much of a day to them at all, because there were no windows in the part of the old army base they were kept in, Rose would convince herself to sleep, providing she was placed between two trustworthy looking people. She would dream of Earth, if only because she hadn't actually seen enough of Alternia to replace the landscape in her mind, and upon waking, cling to the theme of the dream, forcing it to play out in a more lucid manner.

     Her mother was gone; Rose did not linger over this fact, because all around her people had lost mothers, fathers, children, friends, lovers, and so she was not special in this regard; but surely, there would be someone else out of the whole of a race who would care enough to take along a thirteen-year old who wouldn't take up much room at all.

     They learnt of the war's end three months after it had drawn to a close. They had been moved around old army bases a fair few times, and had on several occasions been allowed to walk the perimeter of a disused training ground, which amounted to about two and a half miles. Other than that, they had been kept in blocks with very little room to move, and so the only way they could keep themselves active was mentally; and so all the prisoners told stories every night, many of which they believed to be beyond Rose's understanding. But she understood the innuendo very clearly, and looked at them differently for it. It was strange, then, when all of the doors were opened at once; and along with the trolls who guarded them were humans, humans who certainly hadn't been kept in cramped conditions for nine months.

     Although the doors were now opened, nobody ran out. It was like they'd forgotten how to. Rose supposed that this was a smart move, for all of the trolls were equipped with firearms. The humans read from lists that never seemed to end, calling people out one-by-one, most of which weren't even in her block. Rose listened idly, knowing her attention would immediately be grasped by her own name. In their army base of nine-hundred and fifty, there were four Paul Johnsons, which caused a great deal of trouble when they got to the end of the list and only three were called, and Rose soon gave up on counting how many forged identities were uncovered; with the list of names there were brief descriptions and photos, though people still tried their luck.

     The crowd began to thin out. Rose stretched her legs for the first time in weeks, and then reacquainted herself with pacing. The men came to the end of their lists and still she had not been called, but what was happening didn't immediately dawn on her. They apologised, and said that they could only take those they'd been able to positively identify, and that they'd do everything in their power to return as soon as was possible, and take everyone home. The trolls didn't allow them to say anything more, and lead them out, and presumably back to their ships, with the barrels of their guns pressed to the small of their backs.

     Rose couldn't quite process what was happening. There were no more than thirty people left with her, most of which either looked very old or very rough, like they'd been taken from the streets, and over time, the parents torn from their own children seemed less and less inclined to waste their energy on her. Rose wondered if she'd had an unfortunate growth spurt since being there. She knew that her mother could not ask for her by name, could not do much of anything, and that her father was unknown to her and any extended family had either long since passed away or never been aware of her in the first place, but still, Rose could not believe that she had been so thoroughly abandoned on another planet.

     She sat back down, folded her hands neatly together, and told herself not to worry. Earth would soon have this problem sorted, and the men would return and if not call her by name that time, say, And we'll take the blonde girl in the corner, too.

     But they did not return, and there was no mention of them ever attempting to do so; not that it was to say they didn't try, because peace with the trolls was rough at the best of time, and they didn't want to rouse their anger and provoke them into a second war over a few thousand humans who probably weren't missed, anyway. And so it was decided that all those left in the disused base were to be sold as slaves, as they had long since been doing so in the North and the West, which were apparently definitive landmarks.

     The older, more ragged looking humans were to be pushed into a life of menial labour; tending to crops, picking litter from the streets, cleaning out hoofbeast stables; because humans had terribly short lifespans and would probably drop dead from the heat in a sweep or two, so there was little point in wasting resources on them. Those who were still young enough to be properly shaped were sent off to a number of institutes, establishments that were already set up for the low-blooded troll slaves, and so only needed to be tweaked a little, where they would learn to be worthy of serving the upper-classes, and become a sort of point of interest for curious trolls.

     All the while, Rose never stopped thinking about returning to Earth. It was a given, and she was just waiting and waiting, and it was a definite thing, because there's no such thing as waiting forever. That isn't waiting at all, and Rose had it all planned out.

     But then Rose turned fifteen and Jade was moved from one institute that had burnt down to the one she resided in, and suddenly, life there seemed a lot more real. She realised that she had been floating through life with her limbs barely held off the ground by wisps of delusion, and that it was about time she grew up and accepted the way of things. After that, she stopped longing for Earth.

     And so: when Rose daydreams of the boy in the sunglasses, who probably has a wonderfully plain human name like Dan or Steve (she's starting to forget a lot of them), they aren't on Earth. They haven't escaped. They meet in the market for a second time, and without a word, make their way to a little bar or café that only humans are allowed into. Because it is purposely built for slaves and run by them, they are all equal inside, no matter their master's caste. Rose drinks black coffee, and she doesn't know about Dan, Steve, but it's probably something cold, something with crushed ice in it. They talk about—

     Earth things. It takes her a moment to elaborate. Foods they don't have on Alternia, like breakfast cereals and sliced bread that's actually bread, white, wheat, seeded. TV channels they used to get, shows they used to watch, movies with titles that are only one or three words, sometimes just a number. Music, which acts they think are still going strong, and which soap actors have taken their own lives. Halloween, along with intricately thought out lists of what they would've gone as for the last six years, Christmases, and how it was only an excuse for family members to get blindingly drunk in front of each other; at which point, Rose would say, Is that only limited to Christmas? and laugh, and Steve, Dan, Stan, wouldn't get it, and sip from his drink. Beds, the combinations of frames and mattresses and pillows, and how naïve they were for ever thinking to complain about jutting out springs in the past. Sunrises and sets that they could stare into without burning their irises clean out, or at best seeing sickly spots for days, the way that rain didn't seem like a treat. Dan, Steve, Dave would bring up the internet, and Rose would remember the clack-clack-clatter of her fingers on the keys, sort of like the way her knitting needles come together these days.

     Once they'd explored their common ground of a shared race and exploited the conversation for all it was worth, Rose would finish up her coffee and decide that maybe, she couldn't find much to like about him after all. A personality clash. She'd be polite about it, of course, pay for her half of the bill (perhaps she has pilfered the money from Kanaya's pocket), and say I'll see you around, though she wouldn't keep an eye out for him.

     Well. No one could say that she hadn't tried to make a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for how long it's taken to get this part up. I moved to a new city, found that I had no internet for a few days, and then internet that blocked AO3, aaaand so on. Anyway, here it is now!

     The next day, Rose is certain she must be dreaming.

     She gets up at the usual time, cleans herself in the usual manner, and then dresses, so that she may attend to a selection of her usual tasks. Because Kanaya has ordered her not to scrub the floors every day, Rose does not scrub the floors today. Instead, she drags a stool out into the centre of several blocks, stands on it on tiptoes, and washes the ceilings, wiping away years of grime that people just don't expect to gather up there and wiping away the occasional cobweb. As means of rewarding a job well done, as well as compensating for the fact that stretching too far with her right arm always causes her shoulders to ache, Rose makes herself an unusually large breakfast, and then takes Kanaya's in for her.

     Kanaya is up and active, as ever. She is knelt on the floor with a row of pins pursed between her lips, tending to the beginning stages of a dress around a mannequin. Rose is about to ask if she'd appreciate her help, but then thinks better of it. She wouldn't like Kanaya getting the impression that she wants the finished outfit for herself. Kanaya glances at her, smiles, and some of the pins catch in the sunlight.

     She asks her to go into the meetingblock and help out Vriska, which confuses Rose, because she wasn't aware that she'd stayed over, nor is she certain why she's apparently awake during the day. Kanaya tells her not to worry, just to shout if Vriska gets up to her old tricks, and then sends Rose on her way, picking up the pins she'd removed from her mouth in order to speak.

     In the meetingblock, which Rose approaches with a great deal of care, Vriska is sat on the sofa with her knees tucked up against her, reading from the Bible.

     It takes Rose a moment to recall what it is. Rose's mother had never been religious, had never forced her to attend any ceremonies for any faiths, though she would grumble about the Church's insistence on locking God up inside of their buildings, where nobody else could get to Him or Her or It, but Rose knew that she had no faith in the first place to bitterly lose. Not that any of that should explain why it takes her several seconds of staring to recognise a Bible.

     Vriska scowls, says she's trying to get to the part about Jesus, because he at least sounded interesting, and she really hopes Rose wasn't making all of that up. Besides, the Earth-speak in it is too difficult to trawl through, and who the hell is Thou? Lately, Vriska's grown out of the habit of trying to scare Rose, though it often happens unintentionally so, so she waits until Vriska offers out the book to her before taking it. Her problem, it seems, is that she's in the middle of Leviticus. Rose explains that it's written in outdated English and terms that are probably intentionally confusing in order to test believers' resolve, and that Jesus doesn't come into the picture until much later on. But God in the first half is horrifically vengeful and does whatever the fuck He likes, so perhaps Vriska would like her to read from some of her favourite sections.

     Mulling it over, calling him Jegus again, and then Jegug, with the way her tongue catches between her fangs, Vriska decides that alright, Rose can speak, but they'd better not be shitty stories, and then pats the sofa, signalling for her to sit next to her. This much is unprecedented, but Rose doesn't comment on it, lest Vriska realise what she's done and give her a swift push onto the stone floor. Thumbing through the Old Testament, Rose tries to recall the stories that stuck with her. For once, Vriska listens carefully, and says that Earth must be really a bizarre place, if a man would rather have his daughters raped than see a stranger fill buckets with a couple of guys; but then again, she doesn't really grasp what the exact relationship is between a father and a daughter, how that even works, so perhaps she's reading too much into it. The town being razed to the ground was a nice touch, though, and then she remarks that Earth might be impressive after all, if there are fish which can swallow men and ships whole.

     After a few verses, Vriska grows agitated and tells Rose to stop dumbing things down, and just translate things straight into the troll-tongue. Rose is actually impressed by how much English Vriska does know, and though it takes some effort on her part, obeys her wishes. At one point, Vriska forgets that Kanaya's has forbidden her from touching Rose, and she reaches out to give her a hard pinch. But Rose doesn't yelp, and it's alright, because Vriska took the time to explain that she wanted to see if a human woman really could share the same properties as a pillar of salt.

     And so they spend much of the morning reading gruesome tales from the past and ignoring any morals that have wormed their way inside like they're the best of friends. This thought doesn't trouble Rose as it might, because she's been speaking and thinking in a language that isn't her own for a few hours, and there's no meaningful distinction between _friend_ and _enemy_.

*

     The following morning, the hazy quality the day before took on is explained.

     Rose awakens unable to breathe through her nose. Her heart pounds, and her body is matted with sweat from the way she's convinced herself she was freezing in the middle of the night and pulled the bed covers tightly around her, only to later find that she's actually been burning up all the while. She doesn't often get ill, food poisoning in the early days of captivity notwithstanding, and she thinks back to the times she would try to get out of PE classes under the guise that she had a bad cough; and then her mother would drive her to the hospital, and not leave until she had been immunised against tuberculous.

     Trying to shake it off, Rose gets to her feet. She twists at the taps that offer up both cold and hot water, how marvellous, and then takes a firm hold of the door handle, rattling it. It doesn't give. She wonders if the latch is pulled across, though she makes a point of not using it, not wanting too much space to herself, but can't tell. It takes her a long while to realise that this is all imagined, dream-like, and that she has in fact been curled up and shaking in her bed all the while. She pictures herself watching the news on one of those TVs that were half a metre deep but the height of technological progress back in 2004, but for some reason, all they talk about is penguins. She sees herself get to her feet, take a deep drink of cool water from a condensation-covered glass along with a handful of painkillers, and then wonders why her throat is parched and the ache in her bones persists.

     Eventually, somebody approaches. Rose knows that she should've pulled the latch across after all, or at least propped a chair against the door, but it was just so far away, and besides, she doesn't think there's a chair in the room with her. She'd much rather be still than safe. This somebody asks through the door where their breakfast is, and Rose concludes that oh, maybe she's in a hotel, her mother drags her along on business trips sometimes, but why is she working in the restaurant? The question of breakfast fades away and is immediately replaced by concern. The somebody kneels by the side of her bed, but they aren't her mother, because her mother is dead, and Rose knows that much.

     She blinks her eyes open. The light makes her blinder than when they were closed. But she persists, anyway, until her range is a few inches directly in front of her. She's met by a pair of worried eyes. Oh, Jade, she realises, and then says this out loud. As soon as she forms the dry word, she realises that it's wrong. She means jade, not Jade, and tries it again, though it always comes out sounding like a name.

     So she decides to be done with it, and grumbles something about there being lashings at midnight for anyone caught sleeping in, so they'd better get up and go. The somebody, the non-Jade, seems compliant enough. Rose hears their footsteps retreat, is glad that they're going to avoid the daily punishment, one of them, anyway, and contented with this much, rolls over and drifts back into sleep.

     But she is woken again by somebody, and whether it's the same somebody she can't tell. She can't make out their eyes from where she is. Rose really is given water this time, a handful of something chewy, tar-like, lacking in discernible flavour, and then some medication; landonum, perhaps. A cold, damp cloth is placed on her forehead. And then, later, she makes out the words spoken to her, as if done so through the thick of a swamp, a marsh in the height of summer, though there are still toads leaping around the inside of her skull:

> Rose I Am Going To Touch You Now   
> The Backs Of My Knuckles Will Likely Graze Beneath The Collar Of Your Shirt   
> Please Do Not Be Alarmed

     Rose smiles thickly. She likes this. Kanaya's asking, as opposed to the promised act itself, though that much hardly bothers her. She's been prodded and poked for the sake of her health before, but she wonders how she would react to such a declaration, had Kanaya's intentions not been so frustrating and admirably pure. If she were currently in a better way, and Kanaya claimed she was getting her money's worth, Rose would kick and struggle and claw and bite, not just out of instinct, but to protect a sense of self-worth that no longer holds much value at all. Of course, Kanaya would not say such things. When Rose imagines her in that vile role, her face becomes a blank, the enunciation fades from her voice, her horns are less distinct. And then she amuses herself with sickly thoughts to better suit her current disposition, and comes to the conclusion that if Kanaya said something like that while she was ill, and acted on her brash words, then Rose would simply hope that the sickness and drugs would be enough to cause her to forget in the morning.

> Yes, mother.

     She means this as a joke. She now knows that Kanaya is Kanaya, and as her temperature is taken, realises that this is the first time she has ever called her something other than Mistress out loud.

*

     The next morning, when the worst of the fever has cleared, Rose cannot see things in such an amusing light. She has spent an entire day in bed, resting, hivehold chores not being attended to, Kanaya making her own meals. She feels terrible for it, thinks to dole out a punishment on herself because she knows by now that Kanaya never will; and letting it slide, Rose decides, is Kanaya's punishment. It is a clever, subtle sort, but Rose is left rigidly uncomfortable, and then plainly detests herself for caring that her mistress's boots are not being licked clean. So to speak. She usually makes use of the smaller scrubbing brush for that.

     At one point when either her delirium was particularly animated, or Rose was taking full advantage of the opportunity to splash in the shallows of a madness she is certain would've taken her years ago, if not for protective barriers of sarcasm and repression propped up in her mind, Kanaya attempts to enlist more help than her cooling cloths alone can provide. She claims to have a contact who knows someone who also owns a human slave, and that slave claims to have once been a medical practitioner, and would Rose like her to get in contact with him? Rose said no, no thank you, Mistress, having never had much of a rapport with doctors, and explained that she needed nothing more than fluids and rest.

     When she says it, Rose is repeating a phrase, what she knows the doctor would've said to her had she been brought all the way over, providing she actually existed in the first place. After the words leave her mouth, the request for rest, Rose feels that the walls will begin to tremble and then fall down on her, if the floor doesn't fall from beneath her first. It makes her dizzy in the way that her high fever does not, because what sort of slave asks for rest; moreover, claims to _need_ it? Kanaya should have her taken out behind the toolblock and shot for insolence, for her ubiquitous claims that she requires time to call her own. No rest for the wicked, and slaves rank beneath the morally deplorable.

     Kanaya does her best to go easy on her. She claims that a day of rest is a treat after fifteen perigees of constant, vigilant dedication to the state of the hive, like slaves aim to receive rewards beyond food, water, and shelter from the elements. Rose tells herself over and over that her mistress is not consciously fickle, and should be humoured in her attempt at making it seem as if her concern is for Rose herself, rather than the state of a perfectly good (if her mouth were to be duct taped shut, anyway) slave. One day Kanaya will see the truth of the matter. One day Kanaya will stop making her feel like Rose the person, rather than Rose the slave.

     When much of her strength has returned, Kanaya asks that Rose accompany her on a walk. It is still light out, though drawing to the end of the evening, and as such, the sun is not at its hottest. Kanaya gives her a parasol regardless. It takes a little force to open, but once it's up, it's quite cheerful. There are light, fluffy clouds on it, though there are none in the sky today. They walk the twisting paths around the hive slowly, and Kanaya pretends that it is for her own benefit, so that she can stop at her leisure and inspect the growth of the flowers.

     Rose has to be constantly reminded that the parasol is meant to keep the sun off her shoulders, the back of her neck, to stop her from feeling all the more dizzy; but she diligently holds it out nonetheless, when the sun does all it can to compete with Kanaya's blazing skin. Kanaya picks a flower, a red one, one that Rose does not know the name of, and holds it out to her. Rose takes it from her in her empty hand, expecting that Kanaya will want her to carry many flowers, so that she can press them once they're inside and use the results to form a floral pattern for a dress. There is something strange, however, in the way that Kanaya pressed it to her palm. It's as if it was intended for Rose all along.

     When they begin walking again, Rose does not let go of it, because she has not been told to.

> Forgive Me For Asking So Abruptly But I Must Know  
> Rose Do You Hate Me   
> Excuse me? That's something of an intimate question, Mistress.    
> Oh Not Like That You Know Well Enough That I Meant In The Platonic Way   
> You're my mistress. I'm to regard you with the highest esteem. Why do you ask so suddenly?   
> Because Lately It Seems That You Are Less Willing To Verbally Bite Back At Me  
> Your Jaw Muscles Are Made From Sarcasm And Your Teeth Are The Rows Of Coarse Subtext You Force Into Conversation And Thus Tear Chunks Of My Well Meaning Gestures Away From My Ability To Tolerate How Difficult This Life Must Be For You   
> Maybe I'm getting complacent. Accepting my lot in life.   
> Maybe  
> Is There Anything I Can Do To Change it   
> Why, did you like my fatally argumentative streak after all?   
> Its Not Fatal   
> Youre Still Alive Arent You   
> Yes, but I expect that it will one day prove to be my downfall. Literally, perhaps. There will be one comment too many, the back of someone's hand, a staircase, and, well, what are you to do with a slave who doesn't know their place?   
> Exercise Understanding And Patience And Get Torn Down For Your Efforts Regardless   
> Exactly.   
> Well   
> Well, Mistress?   
> Im Still Waiting For An Answer   
> I Did Not Ask The Question Aimlessly   
> In the Unofficial Slave Handbook, the first rule of self-preservation is holding contempt for your owner, whilst never allowing them to become starkly aware of it.   
> Rose Stop Making Up Pieces Of Literature I Know For A Fact Do Not Exist And Answer Honestly   
> Are you asking me to talk about my feelings, Mistress?    
> Hate Is The Central Feeling So Yeah I Guess   
> ...   
> Once Again Your Silence Speaks Louder Than The Words You Will Afford Me  
> But Still I Cannot Tell Whether I Have Earnt This Silence And Such A Sceptical Look Because You Do Not Wish To Speak Of Your Feelings Purely Because They Are Your Feelings Or Because You Know I Will Not Like The Answer  
> Either Way Assume This Is All Strictly Off The Record    
> The broken one?   
> Yes Thats Why Were Not Using It In This Instance   
> When I was on Alternia for the first few years, I woke up each night to the tune of “Well, it could always be worse.” I may have lived in cramped conditions, but I was being educated in some ways, and it seemed better to me than the humans who had been deployed to tend to your sewage system. This is when I was still young, so of course tending to waste like that seemed like the worst fate imaginable.   
> I See   
> I'm going somewhere with this, Mistress.    
> Im Sure   
> As for my current position, even though I'm a slave, it could always be worse. Human meat used to sell for quite a high price in some parts of Alternia. They used to remind us of this on a nightly basis at the institute. It would've been reasonable to assume that this was only a threat, and that the flesh was more useful to our handlers on the bone than off, but after one or two trolls travel a great distance to enquire how much you'll cost pound-by-pound, you start to see the truth behind the matter. And that's not to forget the use of humans in brothels up north.   
> I Have Heard Mention Of Both   
> Indeed. But here, I am not eaten or beaten, excuse the unintentional rhyme there, or forced into any distressing situations, and am given gifts on a regular basis. So it could be a lot worse.    
> I Am Sensing A But In Here Somewhere   
> But I don't think “it could always be worse” is any way to live.   
> Yes I Can See Why You Would Think So   
> Focusing On What Plights The Existence Of Others As A Means Of Ignoring All That Has Happened And Is Happening To You Will Probably Leave Some Sort Of Gaping Hole In Your Own Life  
> And Then All The Negative Things Will Build Up Under The Guise Of Repression Until One Day Everything Will Pour From You And It Really Wont Matter If It Could Be Worse Or Not Because It Already Is Bad   
> Very good. Have you been reading my psychology magazines, Mistress?   
> Maybe  
> Is It Really That Bad For You Rose   
> Maybe. I can't say. I haven't cracked, yet.   
> And When You Do What Will Happen Then   
> There'll be a great mess to clean up.    
> Rose  
> Im Sorry  
> I Know You Will Think That I Am Just Saying This In Order To Subconsciously Relieve My Own Guilt And Move On From Any Unpleasant Feelings Clenching My Organs Into Lumps Of Fibrous Tissue And Pounding Blood Or To Somehow Tease You So That I Can Delight In The Slight Twitch Of Your Lips Or The Scrunching Of Your Nose That Always Seems To Unintentionally Happen In Reaction To Either This Or That  
> But I Am Speaking The Truth And It Is The Only One I Know So Please Do Not Make Light Of It Or Attempt To Belittle It To My Face  
> I Am Very Fond Of You Rose  
> As A Person Not As A Slave And I Do Not Want You To Hate Me Not Platonically Or In Any Way At All  
> I Do Not Want You To Settle For This Life Because It Could Always Be Worse   
> I Do Not Want You To Have To Think That At All Because You Are Free To Do As You Wish In This Hive Whether What You Wish To Do Consists Of Scrubbing Floors All Day Until Your Knees Are Bruised And Your Fingers Turn Red Raw Or Sitting In The Hobbyblock With Me While I Create Dresses And You Write And Write And Look So Smugly Pleased With Yourself  
> So Please  
> Just Listen And Do Not Mock Me For The Sincerity Behind My Feelings Or Doubt The Genuine Nature Of Them    
> ...   
> Oh Wonderful Here We Go Again   
> Please Thrust Your Foot In A Swinging Motion Formed By The Joint Of Your Knee Into My Side Somewhere Around My Ribs   
> Preferably While I Have Been Forced Into An Uncomfortable Looking Lying Position On The Floor   
> ... you picked this flower for me, didn't you?   
> Um  
> Yes   
> It's very nice. May I have a vase to keep it in, Mistress?   
> Of Course You May Rose

*

     Jade never had trouble sleeping. She used to say there was a method to it, certain tricks of the trade to keep in mind, though she never seemed to employ any of these tactics herself. She'd say goodnight and be out like a light, like there was nothing more to it than snuffing out a candle, but Rose supposed that part of a good trick was not letting on that you were performing it.

     One of Jade's favourites involved blinking very slowly, under the guise that her eyes were getting heavier and heavier, whilst simultaneously reminding herself over and over that she _had_ to stay awake, just another hour or two, otherwise such a thing wouldn't happen; she wouldn't be awake to greet her grandpa when he returned from one of his adventures, for example. This is how Rose toyed with her own mind and tricked herself into sleeping, when she still had trouble doing so. When the crack of pale light filtering in through a window too high to see out of made her feel as if she should just be getting up to start the day, rather than laying herself to rest.

     Rose, not being able to think things like _If I don't stay awake, I'll miss my mother getting home from work_ , because her mother would've been drunk and clattering through the house at any hour, she decided to focus on not being able to look after Jade if she fell asleep. Even though they slept in shifts, even though it was her turn to sleep.

     In the aftermath of her fever, Rose finds sleep hard to settle into. It's especially disconcerting, seeing that she hasn't had trouble in a good few years. She's learn the hard way that space to sleep is difficult to come by, and so when she has the chance she has to be out, just like that, no messing about. Now, she has no Jade to pretend to protect, so she can't trick herself into a rhythm of blinking slowly, heavily.

     She listens to the sounds of the hive. It's silent through and through. She then imagines Kanaya and Vriska having sex, which amuses her a great deal; mostly because there is a recuperacoon involved, and she wonders if they really do copulate in the sopor slime, if they have to fight and grasp through the thick, sludgy substance to find one another. Rose certainly doesn't hear much splashing of a night, though she does, whenever she's over, hear Vriska. Luckily, Rose knows how to cut almost any sound out, and the pillows help. But Vriska, she is as loud and obnoxious in her time spent with Kanaya as she is in everything else. It delights Rose to realise just how insecure she is.

     But there is something about her that Rose envies. Not in the way she reaches and touches Kanaya whensoever the mood takes her, because Rose could do that, has done it, though it has never been spoken of since and she wonders if she imagined it in part, if not entirely; but because Vriska is together enough to allow Kanaya to reach out and touch _her_. Closing her eyes, she tries to imagine herself holding that sort of faith in Kanaya, but can only picture herself tensing and screwing her eyes shut, as if to escape to another place located firmly in the back of her head.

     It is not that it scares her, or even that she is repulsed by the thought of Kanaya's hands on her body. Quite the opposite, actually. There's something else to it, and Rose's determination to mistrust Kanaya's every action and thought overshadows her actual feelings on the matter. Kanaya would never say anything like Now I've finally had my money's worth, or At long last the investment pays off; she'd say You look beautiful in this light, Rose, and that's the part that stops her ever going through with anything.

*

> Whos Jade   
> Jade? It's a colour, Mistress.    
> Not What Is Jade Who Is Jade   
> I Am Aware Of It Being A Colour Thank You Very Much Rose I Do Occasionally Look At My Lipstick Selection Symbol Emergency Colour Wheel And So On   
> You've lost me.   
> I Want To Know Who Jade Is Seeing As You Kept Calling Me By That Name When You Were Ill Last Perigee  
> Oh Shit The Stitch Rippers Please   
> There's not much to know. Here you are, Mistress. I was ill, deliriously so, saw your eyes, and could only think to call you by the colour I saw.   
> Hmmm   
> Not enough of an explanation for you?   
> Oh No That Flat Hmmming Was Reserved Solely For This Garment   
> Do You Think I Should Resew The Hem Or Start Over Entirely   
> You've only been working for fifteen minutes on it. Start with a blank canvas.   
> Yes I Think I Will  
> Oh And Also   
> Hmmmm   
> That hmm was for me, wasn't it?   
> That Is Correct   
> ... Jade Harley was another one of the slaves.    
> Was She Important To You   
> Was She A Friend   
> Oh, you know how it is. The human slaves all look the same to me.   
> You Are Attempting To Parody Gruff Old Trolls So As To Be Humorous But You Do Not Look Very Amused   
> That's your last reel of red thread.   
> Really   
> Well Make Sure To Order Me Some More   
> Yes, Mistress.   
> So Were Not Going To Talk About Jade   
> We're not going to talk about Jade.

*

     When the doorbell sounds late in the evening, after the burnt orange left by the setting sun has bled below the horizon, Rose hurries to answer it, expecting Vriska. It's the same song and dance by now, and Rose looks forward to it in the same way that one might look forward to having their nails ripped off. It either goes:

> Hey, Lalonde. I'm starting to figure out your human think pan! I think the reeeeeeeeal pro8lem is that it's just too simple for me, and I'm putting waaaaaaaay too much thought into it.   
> Is that so, ma'am?   
> Hell yes. Watch this!   
> What, exactly, am I watching, ma'am?   
> Uhhhhhhhh, duh! Look down at your hand, retard.   
> Oh, I see. I suppose my little finger is trembling ever so slightly. It certainly couldn't be the wind causing that happen, or the fact I put down a five litre bottle of bleach to come answer the door.   
> Haha, very funny. One day I'll have you strangling yourself!    
> Very good, ma'am.

     Or otherwise:

> Ugh, Jegus, Lalonde. I almost didn't recognise you, you're getting so faaaaaaaat!   
> Apologies for deteriorating your line of sight, ma'am.   
> Seriously, I could pull chunks off of you! Have you 8een raiding Kanaya's nourishblock? I might have to have words with her a8out this!   
> Perhaps I had an extra egg several weeks ago.   
> Disgusting! Half your rations immedi8ly.   
> If I must, ma'am.   
> Gr8. Now go fetch your mistress for me, if you think you can still fit down the corridors!

     Depending on what sort of mood she is in.

     So prepared for Vriska is Rose that upon opening the door and seeing someone else in her place, she doesn't initially react at all. She stares, though she knows that making eye-contact with strangers is not permissible, but takes in all she can see nonetheless. Before her is troll no older than Kanaya, with thick, sturdy looking horns that twist decoratively, making Rose think of a ram. There is something cheerful in the way she holds herself, rocking on the balls of her feet, like she doesn't realise her symbol marks her as a low-blood, the lowest of the low. But then again, stood in front of a slave, she could well measure her worth on a level equal to the Queen of Sheba, or whatever the troll equivalent is.

     Though Rose is tardy in giving her a proper greeting, she says nothing of it. Rose bows down low, and stays that way even as she speaks. She does not know this woman, cannot hope to predict her actions or understand the reason for the smile across her face, and so it is best not to take any chances. She learnt that the hard way, with Vriska.

> Good evening, ma'am.   
> hey! is kanaya around?

     Rose nods, eyes fixed on the ground. The troll finds something amusing about this, but Rose doesn't feel entirely as if _she's_ being laughed at, so much as the situation is ridiculous. Clapping her hands together enthusiastically and causing Rose to flinch, the woman says that it's great, because she has something for her. Rose allows herself to glance up, spots a rather ornate but aged chest behind her, and gives the troll a wide berth as she moves around to pick it up.

     She takes hold of a handle at one end. She feels dried dirt under her fingertips; there is dirt covering the whole thing, like it has been submerged under the earth for longer than it's been above it. Just as Rose is about to take hold of the opposite end, which her arm-span will barely allow her to reach, the red-blood hoists it up by the handle itself. The chest is left at a slanted angle, where Rose has yet to lift her end from the ground. She looks at her with wide eyes, not certain why she doesn't seem to realise that it's her job to carry it in to Kanaya.

> it's too much for one person to carry!

     Too much for any one person, yes, but not for a slave. Rose looks to the desert, sees an odd white creature curled up in what little shade is offered by one of the trees, the one sculpted into the shape of a hoofbeast, and assumes that it must be the troll's lusus, and that it must have helped her lug the chest over. It's not for Rose to tell any troll what's best for them, even if she should be carrying the chest herself, and so she decides it's best to humour her. Glad that there are no neighbours to witness such a spectacle, Rose allows herself to be assisted in her work.

     Once inside, Kanaya's attention is caught by all the heave-hoing going on, and meets them at the top of the stairs. Because Rose has spent time enough with Kanaya and knows she won't be met with scorn for having looked her way, she does not hold back in studying her expression. She is doubtlessly glad to see the troll, who she calls Aradia, and Rose recognises the name. Kanaya's told her about Aradia before, about how she spends her time digging up Alternia's past, because she wants nothing to do with its present. As they chatter and catch up in the hallway, Rose remains quiet. Quieter than even her usual bouts of silence are. When Kanaya and Aradia head into the meetingblock, Rose is left to carry the chest the rest of the way herself, and isn't glad of it. It's terribly heavy, and she's going to have to scrub her hands down before starting dinner.

     There is no place for her in the block, no need for her presence, and so Rose dismisses herself. She heads to the nourishblock, heaps a generous amount of wood on the fire, and then darts about the hive collecting this and that in preparation of the meal. She hears snippets of Kanaya and Aradia's conversation as she goes, and though she does not mean to pry, she doesn't close her ears to it, either. In the chest is an ancient dress, apparently almost in perfect condition, too, and Aradia had thought Kanaya would have much more use for it than she would. Kanaya thanks her sincerely, and Rose proceeds to pluck all the feathers from a cluckbeast.

     She serves them both dinner. Aradia is a little taken aback by the size of the meal, and Rose supposes that it must be breakfast time for her at the moment. Still, she eats it all anyway, and from what Rose can tell, it's a pleasant evening for the two of them.

     With the hive finally free of guests, Rose is able to head back to her own block. She stares at her writing pad, unlocks it, and half-heartedly adds in a few more words, but finds that for once, her desire to sleep overpowers her desire to write. She takes heed of her urges, pulls the covers tightly around her, and is awake within two hours. There is a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, and if Rose didn't know herself as well as she does, then she may well have ascribed food-poisoning to it. She allowed herself a small portion of the meat left over from the cluckbeast that wasn't served up to Kanaya and Aradia, but knows that she cooks well enough to make her meals safe for any stomach, human and troll alike.

     The truth of the matter is that, although Rose knows Kanaya has many close friends, for she talks about them as and when she feels is necessarily, Rose doesn't often come face-to-face with any of them. Kanaya visits their hives, and only Vriska ever comes around here; and so it is easy to forget there are more people in Kanaya's world than simply Vriska and herself. Rose wonders if she's jealous. She wouldn't be surprised. There is little in this world that she can call her own, because even her words are formed by Kanaya's pens on Kanaya's paper, but the one thing she's certain of is that Kanaya is _her_ mistress. Rose wonders if she wants to claim her for her own, to hoard her away, just to feel that she has something. To help her validate her existence.

     Rose either does not want to sleep or will not be able to. Either way, the result is the same. Sitting up, Rose swings her legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling as she considers the possibility of placing her feet against the floor hours before she's due to be up. Rose looks around, as if she expects to find herself being watched. As if Kanaya could hide away in any corner of her room without her glow immediately giving her away. Holding her breath, Rose places her feet on the floor.

     No alarms sound, the lights in the hive don't all flicker on, nor do her soles burn.

     In that moment, the first step is the hardest. Rose finds herself moving in quick, light steps across her block, and with the darkness as absolute as it is, it's easy for her to imagine that her feet don't touch the ground at all. She floats above the floor, and in that way, this is all nothing more than a dream. That much makes it possible for her to keep walking, to open her door that's so much louder now that closes properly, because none of this can be real. She would never really dare to cross the hive in the dead of the night, and stand in front of her mistress's respiteblock.

     It's as if they are somewhere else, and she is someone new. The night time is fresh, invigorating, because she sees Kanaya in the day, in the light, when it is easy map the lines on her own face; and when they are together at night, it is a mockery of darkness, because there are rows upon rows of flickering lights, bathing the marketplace in a fluorescent glow. This is region entirely unexplored between them, a soft, malleable land that has no real territory, no distinct boarders. It may not remain that way for long, but Rose will do what she can to shape it as she sees fit, if only for a fragment of a moment caught between her hands.

     She knocks on Kanaya's door. Softly, with no definitive rhythm. She is being cautious, not timid. Again, she holds her breath, counting down from ten. When there is still no reply, she wraps her fingers around the handle, and gently twists it. She exhales heavily when it gives beneath her hand, like she didn't expect it to let her in.

     It doesn't creak on its hinges. Rose wishes that it had, so that something would stir Kanaya from her sleep. She does not have breath enough in her lungs to make a noise from her own throat, and is beginning to realise that this is a terrible idea after all, and that she should turn and flee while she still can. But as her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, she can just about see the floor beneath her feet, and knows that she's no longer gliding. If she turned and ran, then Kanaya would hear the pattering of her footsteps on the stone tiles.

     She is frozen in place for a good minute. She can see Kanaya's recuperacoon, but not her mistress inside. Rose wonders what Kanaya dreams of with the sopor slime to subdue her, and then wonders what would plague her subconscious if it wasn't there to assuage her. More than that, Rose wonders how it would reflect on her during her waking hours; whether she would finally twist and snap as Rose has been waiting for her to for so long. She could find out, too. Easily. Rose clears out her recuperacoon every few months, scrubs the sides down and refills it with a fresh batch of sopor slime. It wouldn't take much to dispose of the sopor slime elsewhere and fill the tub with the sort reserved for breakfast.

     Before Rose's thoughts are allowed to wander any further, she hears Kanaya shift inside the recuperacoon, light throwing itself all around the room as she surfaces. It's too bright for Rose to see anything, serving exactly the same purpose as the darkness previously had.

> Rose  
> Is There Something Wrong

     Kanaya sounds worried. Genuinely so, and is validated in her distress, because there must be something horribly wrong to explain Rose's uncharacteristic visit. Rose, for her part, doesn't know what to say. Can't remember what she came there for after all, and has no chance of ever voicing her feelings. Kanaya's eyes are on her, and she is caught in a limbo, unable to answer her mistress, incapable of backing away. Tense moments pass, and the silence falls down on Rose like cobwebs. Her skin tingles and itches all over. She wants to grab at handfuls of nothing.

> Alright Clearly This Conversation Is Getting Us Even Less Far Than Usual  
> Wait Outside For Me

     That much Rose can do. An order is like a breath of fresh air to her, and she takes two steps backwards, pulling the door to as she goes. Waiting in the corridor, she pats her hands at her arms, as if something really is caught on her skin, and then listens out for the noises inside Kanaya's block. The slime squelching as she climbs out of it; a gentle rush of water as she washes it from her skin; a rustling of fabric as she dresses; the doorhandle turning from the inside.

     In the corridor, Kanaya bathes them both in her light. Rose's heart pounds away in her chest like it did when she was ill, and her hands are similarly clammy. She wipes her palms on the sides of her nightdress. Kanaya, despite having been woken in the middle of the night without any hint of an explanation, says nothing, because saying nothing is probably the right thing to do in this situation. If there is a right thing at all, Rose muses, and then decides that it's not actually much of a situation at all. Not yet.

     She's done this before. She can do it again. Her hands, now dry, reach out, and she takes both of Kanaya's between her own. Rose is glad of her glow, because without it, she would be groping blindly in the dark, and even less certain of herself for being trapped in a maze of her own fruitless movements. She meets Kanaya's gaze, and her eyes are wonderfully warm, though her lips remain pressed in a straight line, as if not wanting to commit herself to any expectations; there is no scorn in her expression, no judgement, and Rose wishes that Kanaya would make this all easier on her by snapping and screeching out her orders.

     And then Rose realises she does that a lot. Acts as if Kanaya has any reason to make life the slightest amount easier for her, and then as if to make up for her wrongdoings, decides to buck up and get on with things. She screws her eyes shut, and everything behind her eyelids swirls, like the whole corridor, the whole hive, is spinning every which way, and she has to strain just to think, to fight against the tide that tries to rip her few remaining coherent thoughts from her; the world needs to be righted, before she can even move.

     Her surroundings stop twisting and writhing, just like that. Rose pushes herself up on tiptoes and the floor beneath her wobbles. Her breath catches in her throat, and she tries not to move a muscle until the tiles stop swaying beneath her feet. They still, and though Rose knows it's only for a moment, she hesitates regardless; but then she thinks that the walls will collapse on her at this rate, and takes the final step, leaps out, and presses her lips to Kanaya's.

     It isn't like the first time they kissed. There is no desperation there that's been present for longer than either of them would like to admit. They do not kiss as if there's a time limit, as if they have to make the most out of each and every second that passes them by, and neither are the two of them unprepared. Rose still doesn't know what she's doing, not really, because the shape of Kanaya's mouth is so different to that of Jade's, but Kanaya draws her in, pulling her close. She rests her hands against the small of her back and does not move them, and Rose finds this oddly chivalrous, like Kanaya is making a conscious effort not to demand too much from her.

     And it must be difficult to demand the absolute minimum when she could easily demand it all, and Rose would be bound to oblige. Rose appreciates that. Her own hands find Kanaya's shoulders, to cling to her. The corridor has long since stopped spinning around her, and there no longer seems to be a threat of structural damage, but Kanaya herself moves without motion, twists in the darkness, and Rose does not wish to slip from her hold.

     Rose does not time the kiss, and knows that it is a proper one for it, without the seconds ticking by in her mind.

     She ends it abruptly, letting go of Kanaya's shoulders where her fingers have twisted into the fabric of the gown she's wearing, and takes a step back. When Kanaya shows absolutely no signs of moving, Rose takes a second step back, turning slightly on her heels so that she does not come into contact with the wall behind.

> I'm sorry for waking you for nothing more than that, Mistress.   
> Not At All Rose  
> But I Think That Now We Should Both Go Back To Our Respective Vehicles For Sleep

     Rose nods deeply, not able to agree more. She returns to her block by walking backwards the entire way, wanting to keep her eyes on Kanaya, to see what she does. Kanaya only waits until Rose has turned the corner and thus is out of sight to return to her own respiteblock, and Rose is relieved, though no part of her truly expected Kanaya to follow.

     Back in her bed once more, Rose feels as if she never left it in the first place. She closes her eyes, and they are too heavy to feign blinking; and she'll be asleep, soon enough, and when she wakes, it will be nothing more than a bizarre dream to her. Kanaya will speak nothing of it, of course, because it happened in the dark, and the dark is an entirely different space for Kanaya and Rose alike, where, if only for an imagined second, Rose can truly convince herself that the kiss meant the same to both of them.


	7. Chapter 7

     In the morning, Rose writes in her book:

> I felt a Cleaving in my Mind  
> As if my Brain had split  
> I tried to match it – Seam by Seam  
> But could not make it fit.

     But cannot remember who to credit it to. It has rattled around the inside of her head for some time, years even, certainly long enough to be considered her own creation that she's since forgotten. It would make sense. There is the allusion to seamstresses there, painfully clear, and cleaving too, because she has often found reason to use a cleaver in the nourishblock. Why the capitalisation, however, she cannot say, and goes back to believing she has forgotten; forgotten who composed it, that is, rather than when she herself did so.

     Certainly no one on this planet. Likely no one alive, either, and Rose likes the words, feels that she can keep them for herself, because surely no two people experience the same connection to them. The dead don't have much need for ABCB patterns, and are no longer held together, by seams or otherwise.

     At a later point, she disregards all of the above, and decides that she really didn't sleep enough.

*

     Alternia has been at war with so many races for so long, for no reason beyond giving trolls something to do, some way to keep a frail sense of peace on the homeworld itself, that their culture is a mishmash. They assimilate parts from throughout the universe, take what they can use, and grind the rest into dust. The parts they find either particularly reprehensible or otherwise amusing are made mockery of.

     At this rate, Rose thinks that the trolls are going to forget what was originally theirs. She sees much of Earth, or what she thinks originated from Earth, considering that she can't entirely trust in her memory these days, reflected in Alternia. Kanaya has her grow many of the vegetables for the nourishblock, and many of these are native to Alternia's soil, no doubt – one especially difficult vegetable to grow in any of the seasons has teeth – but there are carrots there, too, and four months ago she got courgettes to grow. They've not been available for long, only mere sweeps, but the next generation of trolls will take them to have always been there, a long-standing part of their ancestors' diets.

     It's not terrible, in many ways. Rose doesn't give much of a shit about troll culture or preserving it, doesn't see anything of worth that ought be clung to, and sooner or later, they're bound to take in some of the more positive traits of other races throughout the universe. And there must be _some_ , she decides, despite her ingrained scepticism, even though Earth left her and close to nine-thousand others on Alternia without so much as a breath of an apology, deciding to sacrifice a few for the good of many. Rose wonders how she'd feel about this, had her mother not been so determined to make a show of herself and draw the trolls' attention and gunfire her way, and had she remained on Earth. She probably wouldn't even spare a thought for those trapped on Alternia, would go on her merry way throughout her life of luxury, of freedom, only weighed down by a sottish guardian. She creates a distinction between human-Rose and slave-Rose, and decides that she does not like the former very much; she's glad she's only hypothetical.

     So she won't act like Earth is perfect, like the trolls should aim to be as humans are. Or were, anyway. She doesn't know how they've collectively changed in her absence.

     When Kanaya presents her with several tickets and orders to call for a car, Rose comes to learn that there are some trolls who wish to uphold long-standing traditions, and with quite a flourish, too. They head out to something reminiscent of a Roman Colosseum, only with steps on just the one side, and a sturdy wooden covering. On the steps are various seating arrangements, appropriately placed and priced. The low-bloods sit together at the bottom, huddle on the floor, and higher up chairs are provided. Where Kanaya is, there are private tables, with a great buffet of food and drink available behind them.

     Rose can't really say why she's there. Kanaya isn't really taken by these things, and certainly doesn't need her there, for company or otherwise. She has someone with her, and Rose recognises him immediately as Kanaya's best friend, Karkat. They often stream movies together, and sit idly chatting over the mics built into the husktops. He sits at the table opposite Kanaya, shoulders hunched up, perpetually fiddling with his sunglasses. It's not as bright as it could be, so Rose doesn't see much of a reason for them, but she doesn't bring this up, as she's sure he isn't just doing it for his own comfort. Not from the way that he constantly crinkles his nose and readjusts the arms over the backs of his ears.

     If he's trying to hide something, which is the immediate impression Rose gets, having recently been indulging in some of Kanaya's detective novels, he doesn't have much reason to worry. If there is attention being thrown around the crowd by the other trolls as they wait for the show to start, it is paid in equal parts on Rose, the only human-slave there, and Kanaya, the only person who thought to provide their own lighting for the evening. Karkat swears as much as in person as he does online, though in troll society, foul language isn't considered telling of a lack of education; rather, the way that he uses the words, the edge he gives the troll equivalent of _fuck_ , is actually quite graceful. Like a satire of poetry that somehow comes out better than the thing it's parodying.

     He is very angry, all the time. It makes Rose want to smile. His anger comes all out in a rush of words and clenched fists, and she doesn't think she has anything to fear from him. He scowls at her because he scowls at everyone, not because he has some grudge against her race, some need to remind her of her station. Rose thinks she might like to talk to him more when there are not so many eyes cast upon them, and hopes that Kanaya will have him over to the hive at some point.

     For the most part, Rose does nothing but stand around. Kanaya and Karkat are left to help themselves to the food at the back, although the rest of the aristocracy have their slaves fetch their meal for them. When they arrived, the manager explained that the patrons would rather a human stay away from the food, because nobody could say for sure what unknown diseases it was or wasn't carrying, and how they might spread, and he'd hate to have to get in the drones and ruin an evening of good entertainment for the sake of an impromptu culling. And so Rose remains where she is, close to Kanaya and Karkat's table, but not so close that she might be considered part of the conversation.

     The other slaves stand in line with her, and speak in low voices. They speak about her, even, in their native tongues, as if they believe a human could be on Alternia for six and a half years, because that was the last time any had been brought onto the surface, and not pick up a few foreign words in that time. Rose ignores them as she ignores much of her life, staring at the stage like the performance has already begun. When the audience begin to talk more and more amongst themselves, the slave-trolls become bolder, and say things like how their masters and mistresses were only put in this miserable universe in order to give them work to attend to, plates to fill and clothing to dirty, and they laugh at their owners' empty existences. Rose feels her brow furrow. She doesn't like them speaking in such a way, as if their words are directly aimed at Kanaya.

     Three years ago, she might've congratulated them for their bravado.

     The show starts, and Rose has a good vantage point. Better than the red bloods down on the lowest level, cramped together. Rose watches as nine trolls perform what she supposes is a traditional dance, and tries to pick pieces from it to use in her writing, tries to decide whether they sway or flutter or something altogether heavier, whether the dancers are as talented as she first assumes, or if she just hasn't seen graceful movements in long enough to believe even the clumsiest of jerky steps to be the spirit of dance itself; if the colours of their costumes are clashing, or just bold in their every shade. She then decides that the whole performance would be more effective, had those running it hired Kanaya for the costume design. Rose wonders if there's a story being told with their toing and froing, but then stops wondering when the dance comes to a sudden halt and they all lunge spears Rose had taken for props at one another.

     Three of the dancers end up dead. The audience erupts into applause. Rose thinks it must be a waste to train people so thoroughly, only to skewer them at the end of every performance. She does not even consider that it could be a trick, because trolls are not moved by feigned murders.

     Next up comes an act meant to mock a race Rose isn't familiar with. The trolls acting have painted their faces bright green and their horns black, so that they're difficult to make out against the dark backdrop, and they all walk as if with a crick in their back. The audience seems to enjoy this, and the laughter comes in stages. If the red and yellow bloods find something amusing, then the green and blues will keep their lips pressed together; and if there is silence from the first handful of rows, then those higher up on the spectrum will laugh with delight, as if appreciating a sophisticated joke that those beneath them can't hope to understand. All except Karkat and Kanaya, anyway. Karkat scowls at everything, and Kanaya's eyes flicker around, as if looking for something more than what's been presented to her.

     The humans are on third. Rose was expecting this, and doesn't tense as much as she thought she might. She feels the other slaves' eyes on her, and Karkat glances back, quickly covering up the subconscious movement by lifting his almost empty glass for another drink. Rose is allowed near the alcohol, at least.

     This show must be popular, Rose concludes, in order to possess a full three human slaves. Being the commodity that they are, she expects them to be a major selling point. The first out is a very young boy indeed with a shock of red hair, who doesn't do much more than get jeered at by the crowds. He can't have been much older than three or four when he was first taken, and Rose doubts that he remembers much of Earth at all. There are mostly likely trolls who could speak more of the human experience than the boy. Secondly is a girl, a little older than Rose, blonde, who juggles with flaming batons, like they're in a circus. Last of all is a man, grey-haired, who sings off-key and endures all that is thrown at him by the audience. Even from a distance Rose can see the glazed look in his eyes, like he still remembers his old life when he was a doctor or a lawyer, something respectable, and retreats there, in the corner of his mind that's still his own, during times like this.

     Karkat calls her over again. To talk, this time. Not for another drink. He asks if this is really what her people do for entertainment, which Rose finds strange. The humans are no more her people than the trolls are. She says that No, sir, I believe this is all utter bullshit, to which he laughs for the first time that evening and says, Thank fuck for that.

     The humans in the show all work with great iron collars around their throats, connected to chains as thick as Rose's wrist, as if there's any chance of them escaping through a crowd of five-hundred trolls, not to mention security. They are put through a series of dangerous tasks, but never deadly ones. Their lives can't be squandered as easily as the trolls' are. All the while, Rose watches with half-lidded eyes, because if Kanaya cannot bring herself to pay her full attention, she will not, either. Perhaps, in a few days or weeks from now, Rose will bring herself to ask Kanaya just what was distracting her. In the meanwhile, she considers the possibility of sneaking out of her room again in the dead of night and allowing Kanaya to kiss her throat.

     It wouldn't be difficult to guide her mouth there. All she'd have to do is initiate a kiss, and then tilt her head back ever so slightly, showing that she wanted more, after all; and then Kanaya's lips would be on her throat, branding it, and Rose wonders if she'd shudder and shake, body turbulent with snaps of remembrance of the time she sunk in her fangs, much like electricity. Probably not. Rose has separated the two scenarios in her mind. She's almost disappointed.

     But no, she won't do that tonight. She'll mull over the thought, and relish in the idea of actually being able to give out permission of her own, of making Kanaya wait to kiss her throat until she decides that it's time.

     The thought of being in some semblance of control elates her as much as it repulses her.

     With the humans gone (and though Rose doesn't notice them leave, distracted as she is, she supposes that the thunderous round of applause signals their departure) there is more traditional dancing, more ritualistic murders, further mockery of other races, and this goes on into the early hours of the morning. When it finally draws to a close, Karkat looks overwhelmingly happy to be done with it, but Kanaya seems disappointed, like she hoped to see something that wasn't put up on display. The two of them say their goodbyes, Kanaya promising Karkat that next time they'll see a movie, and then Kanaya tells Rose that she's going to speak with the manager.

     Rose waits in the car for upwards of forty-five minutes. The driver keeps peering at her in the rear-view mirror, and Rose fears he's going to attempt conversation. When Kanaya finally returns, she looks stricken, in some way; whether by guilt, irritation, boredom or something else, Rose can't say. There is silence, for a moment, Kanaya's hands folded neatly in her lap, because Rose feels that there should be silence. Kanaya clearly has something she wants to say, but will remain reluctant to do so until the space driven between them by the silence is almost irreversibly wide.

> Rose There Is Something That Must Be Said  
> Although It Would Probably Be Better To Remain In The Dark   
> Youd Never Guess At It Otherwise   
> If you say so, Mistress.    
> I Am Afraid I Have Let You Down

     This catches the driver's attention. His eyebrows raise at such a revelation, for what could a mistress possibly have to prove to a slave? Rose winds the window up between the two halves of the car, prepares to be perplexed, but then it all pours from Kanaya as if she has tugged at a loose thread and watched her latest creation unravel.

> I Have A Friend Who Works In The Courtblock   
> Terezi   
> I Know You Have Heard Of Me Speak About Her Before You Are Nothing If Not Irritatingly Attentive  
> I Asked Her To Look Into Some Paperwork For Me   
> Some Official Documents And Enquire Into The Placement Of A Jade Harley  
> Because I Knew That I Had To Fill In So Many Documents And Forms Upon Purchasing You That I Began To Believe It Was All A Scam And I Was Signing My Life Away  
> Anyway  
> Terezi Eventually Tracked Down A Human By That Name To This Show And Provided Me With A Photograph   
> So I Assumed The Best Course Of Action Was To Book Tickets To The Aforementioned Performance  
> Only I Did Not See Her In The Crowd And After Much Non Compliance On His Behalf The Manager Told Me That She Had Been Sold On To Another Owner Privately

     The inside of Rose's head feels oddly empty. She'd expected it to be swimming by this point. The blood pounds loudly in her ears, but she does not feel as if there is any real substance between the flow. Her thoughts come and go in loose strands, not really connected to one another. It's somewhat reassuring to know that Jade was sent there, if only for a while, because they looked well fed; but what a waste of all the years of training she'd had. Rose can't even wonder how she'd react to seeing Jade, because the fact of the matter is that she _hasn't_ seen her, so there's no point lingering over what-ifs.

     But beyond all that, beyond thoughts of Jade, Rose realises that she's angry at Kanaya. It's the first time it's ever happened, because anger is far too personal an emotion to invest flippantly. The part of her life that circles around Jade has always been a private one, a grim time that she can look back on and realise that there may well still be someone out in there in the universe who remembers her by name. Who would put her on a list, if the time ever came. She feels as if the last of her defences have been broken down, as if Kanaya has taken her nails and dug beneath the skein encasing that last inch of her, the part that's always been out of her reach.

> ... you said there was a photograph. Can I have it?

     _I want it_ , she means to demand, but even her anger cannot blind her fully, cannot make her so bold.

> Absolutely Rose Its Yours   
> ...   
> Youre Mad Arent You  
> And I Get The Feeling That Taking You To A Show Where Humans Are Made Mockery Of Wasnt The Best Of Ideas  
> Shit   
> What did you expect to happen?   
> I Dont Know   
> Perhaps I Thought That You Would Instantly Recognise Jade And From There On I Could Do Something  
> Purchase Her Perhaps   
> They wouldn't allow you to have two human slaves. You couldn't justify it to the handlers.   
> I Know That Now I Just Wanted To  
> Give You Something That Would Really Mean Something To You Not Just Silly Gifts That Look Like Blackmail  
> Another Piece Of Earth For You To Cling To   
> A piece of Earth. Earth itself hasn't been something I've wanted in a long time, Mistress. I'm not a person who's grown up there; I am not the Rose Lalonde anyone on the surface would remember, if there was anyone to remember me at all. I didn't know Jade on Earth. Jade is part of Alternia, just like everything else I have.   
> Really  
> What Do You Think Youd Be Like If You Had Been On Earth All Along Rose   
> I'd be older.   
> Thats Not Possible   
> It is. Sometimes, I feel that I'm trapped in the age I was when I first arrived. Like I haven't been given the chance to grow, having been locked away all this time, caught in the same state of mind. I'd know more than I do now. My mind would actually be useful to me for reasons beyond repeating the same old, dull ideas. Everything I have is tired. My body, my mind. All the psychology I know is from the past, and even those breakthroughs detailed in the old magazines you purchased me are dated. Since then, researchers have disproven the ideas, improved on them, found new theories stemming from them. What I believe to be sound evidence may well be a laughing stock in certain circles on Earth. I have spent close to seven years believing in the same things, Mistress, never challenging myself to expand on them further. Because there's nothing here for me. No test subjects, no human minds in numbers that are worth being counted. I am stuck in a loop, my life repeats itself, and when I die, I will be as thoroughly uneducated but self-conceited as I am now. I have my sarcasm, and all it does is cover up the fact that I am a child, and that I know nothing at all. All I can do is bow down in submission and agree to whatever you say. Not because I believe doing so makes my life any easier, but because I genuinely can't do anything else. When I die, I hope they take my brain and cut it to pieces, so that they discover that this-or-that lobe was ridiculously enlarged, so as to explain my thick-as-shit behaviour, my constant pulling at my own strings, like trichotillomania. Any self-loathing is there only for my entertainment, seeing as I am to have no real opinion either way.    
> Rose  
> Your Hands Are Shaking Please Stop This   
> If I were on Earth, what would I do? I would be in college, university. I would create troubles in my life to keep myself balanced, as if the deadline for an essay is some pressing concern. Perhaps I'd live in the dorms. Perhaps I'd have a house with Jade, if fate decided it wanted us to meet on our homeworld. I'd argue with my mother, thinking I had it worse living with her than living with the memory of her torso being torn clean through by troll ground troops. I'd do whatever the fuck I felt like, wouldn't spend my days scrubbing anyone's floors, counting the tiles to keep my mind active.   
> Please Rose Youll Cut Into Your Arms If You Dig Your Nails In Any Deeper   
> I'll rip them apart, Seam by Seam.   
> I Dont Think That Sounds Like Such A Good Idea   
> It's a poem. Emily Dickinson.   
> Im Certain She Was Very Talented Rose But For Now Id Much Rather Ensure That Youre Alright  
> We Can Discuss Human Poetry Later I Promise But For Now Give Me Your Hands   
> And put them where, Mistress? Against your—   
> Do Not Even Begin To Insinuate That You Are Any Sort Of Prostitute Or Lady Of The Day  
> Just Place Your Hands In Mine   
> Yes, Mistress.   
> Okay Now Squeeze On My Hands Until You Have Calmed Yourself   
> They're very warm.   
> Yes That Is Indeed A Side Effect Of Glowing   
> Do you know what the funny thing is, Mistress?   
> No I Dont But You Can Tell Me Even Though I Doubt Ill Garner Much Amusement If Any At All From The Punchline   
> I have more in you than I do back on Earth. Nobody came for me, you know.   
> I Know Rose  
> But Are You Certain Theres No One At All   
> Well. I had a friend, John. He'll be twenty soon, and yet I haven't seen him since he was twelve. I doubt he even remembers me, or— hm. Oh.   
> Hm Oh   
> That Isnt Ever A Good Conclusion To Reach   
> Oh, I'm simply reflecting on how strange it is that in seven years, I haven't once taken the time to consider the fact that he could've been killed during the war. Or brought up here as a slave. I always imagined that he was doing well, all the better for having forgotten me.   
> Hush Now  
> You Are Delirious   
> Look At You   
> I Can Still Feel Your Hands Trembling And Your Forehead Is As Damp As It Is After You Wrestle To Pull The Carnivorous Vegetables From The Dirt  
> We Are Almost Back To The Hive So  
> Shhh   
> Yes, Mistress.

     Kanaya's hands do not remain wrapped around Rose's for long. She releases them, most likely due in part to how clammy they are, and then pulls Rose close. Rose falls slack against her like a rag doll, and wonders if this is it. If she's finally cracked, though there doesn't seem to be that much of a mess to clear up, and certainly nothing inside of her mind or deeper still has snapped. Maybe nothing more than a leak has sprung, and that'll soon be patched up.

     Rose closes her eyes, finding it easier to accept Kanaya's embrace that way, easier to act as if she isn't shaking. Later, she'll find the space to wonder whether she only brought up living with Jade in such a context to see if Kanaya too would be sparked by jealousy. God, Rose wishes that she understood what anything in her life meant, and why it is that she can break down in front of Kanaya like this and not feel as if her feet will soon be swaying above the scaffolds for it.

*

     Vriska brings a guest with her on her next visit. Or what would've once been classed as a guest, anyway.

     It's the body of a dead man, some sweeps older than Vriska herself, who seems to have met a rather nasty end by means of a knife being thrust into the soft, exposed flesh of his throat. Vriska claims no credit for it, doesn't boast, but mostly because she doesn't need to; Rose knows she's the one responsible. She barely manages to reach out and catch the body when Vriska tosses it towards her, and then has to tilt her head back and pretend that the brown blood doesn't smell quite as strongly as it does. Rose has never acclimatised to the scent of troll blood.

     Years ago, when she first arrived on Alternia and lived on Earth before that, Rose would've found this sort of thing distressing. Now the only thing that she does find unnerving is the way it doesn't bother her beyond the thought of how tough the blood stains will be to get out of the carpet. She knows that Vriska's perfectly justified in what she's done, that she has the full support of the law behind her because she's a blue blood, and looking at one of those funnily is a good way to lay your life on the line.

     Vriska gives the corpse a good, hard pat on the back, which in turn nearly sends Rose tumbling over backwards. She expects that this was Vriska's intention all along, because she looks none too pleased when Rose manages to keep her balance. With a frown, she explains that Rose needs to put the body somewhere where it won't go to rot too quickly, needs to patch up the throat so that the body doesn't drain itself of blood. She's going to be stopping over for the day, because the sun's threatening to rise and she doesn't want to be out in it, but after that, she's dragging the corpse right back to her own hive.

     Rose wisely doesn't ask her why.

     She drags the body down into the cellar, which is always cold no matter the season and requires cleaning three times each perigee to ensure that the meat stored on hooks there doesn't go off. With a heave, she gets the body onto the table, although its head and feet hang over the edges. She apologises, doesn't sound particularly heartfelt in doing so, and then heads upstairs in search of suitable instruments. On the way up, Kanaya spots her, and asks for some wine. Actual wine, this time; not some sort of code for blood, though Rose has plenty of that on her hands.

     Rose opens up a bottle with a satisfying _pop_ , lets it breathe for a moment, and takes in a glass to Kanaya and Vriska each, before returning to their more rigid guest, armed with a sewing kit, a good amount of tissue, and large jug of water.

     She washes the wound, wipes up any blood that's likely to get in her way with the tissue (using cloth would've been more respectful, but would mean more washing), and then sets about piecing him back together. Admittedly, she has no experience with piercing flesh, and expects it to be like sewing a quilt or repairing a hemline, only tougher. That proves to be wishful thinking. It is slippery work, and the flesh tears more easily than she expected; and she is no doctor or nurse schooled in this sort of thing, made evident in the way that she gags and heaves until her eyes water as she works. But she does not stop. It is unlike beheading a cluckbeast or preparing meat on the bone. She half expects the troll to bolt upright and start screaming at any given moment, because surely this is more agony than the fatal blow itself was.

     But eventually she gets it done, even if there's no more clean water to wash the blood from her hands. She's glad she had the presence of mind to put an apron on. Rose glances up at one of the unoccupied hooks, but knows putting him up there would be stupid, would just cause the blood to drain down into his feet or head, depending on how she hanged him. She leaves him lying on the table, covered in a sheet, and then looks around the cellar for tonight's dinner.

     She often wonders why Kanaya and Vriska don't simply live together. Vriska is over at least three times a month, and Kanaya is at her hive just as often, for days at a time. When asked, Kanaya says that Vriska has a situation with her lusus, and that Vriska wouldn't want to live in the desert, anyway; wouldn't want to commit to permanently changing her sleeping pattern. Besides, living together was supposedly more of a matesprit thing than a kismesis one, and Rose remembers that, right, Kanaya's still pretending they're in the blackened hemisphere.

     Sometimes, Rose considers Kanaya to be consciously naïve to the true shade of the feelings between herself and Vriska, like some part of her wants to save a space for flushed feelings. She has expressed fondness for Rose before, and likely has the capacity to pity quite ardently.

     But beyond that, beyond Rose's place in it all, she knows that's all Kanaya and Vriska are capable of. Vriska hates too freely and without real feeling behind it, and so can hate Kanaya in a way that she'll never be able to admit to pitying her; and Kanaya, she's far too accommodating, will let Vriska have her way. The advantage of a kismesissitude is that she's free to loudly complain about her every action.

     Rose decides on bleatbeast for dinner. Vriska and Kanaya have had more than their share of wine by the time it's served up, and Rose clears up after the pair, with a dead body beneath them all the while.

*

Getting straight into the heart of the matter with no formalities undertaken, no quaint, human notions like _Dear So-and-So_ , and no notation of the date and time, as if you could really conjure up the ability to care about trivial details; although knowing you, you'd find some way to grin about it. If you still grin these days, I'm not sure. I like to imagine that you do, but I also like to imagine that I am a wizard caught in the haze of one of my own spells, and will soon wake up when my faithful familiar knocks a bucket of water over my head. So take that as you will. Usually in these fantasies, I'm a male wizard with a great white beard, not grey, because that's the immediate association I have with the word. Again, take it as you will.

Any assertions of getting to the heart of the matter have been swept aside (likely with my wizard's broom, because if witches need them, then so do wizards), because I'm rambling on, a habit I've recently developed from a certain someone, who I'll tell you about later. Anyway: I'm wasting more time with this introduction, as perplexing as it is. I could derail this letter further, or perhaps I should start a new one. It doesn't matter. This won't get to you, because I won't send it. Even if I do, the chances are less than slim; because let's face it, how likely is it that anything will work out for me? I went to a show where you were stationed, supposedly. This could all be trickery, to make me trust further in those who are going to painstaking lengths to bring us back together. They even went as far as to slip this address under my door, having tracked it down. I'm told this is where you live now. That a blue-blood bought you a thousand miles away. May as well be a million-gazillion.

Besides, what do they know? Nobody has any actual proof that you exist. Or existed. There's a photo I was given, which I've since come to use as a bookmark, and your name is on documentation. But I could easily have seen or heard the name while we were all being thrown back in cages like cluckbeasts ready to have our heads removed, and spent the proceeding years running around, headless, somehow avoiding tripping over things. I couldn't say either way. Sometimes I wonder if you're real, because when I think back on you, it's always at the grimmest of times. You'll understand why I don't like reflecting on you often, because you were always stupidly understanding of almost everything. Or at least I imagine you were.

Do you remember when I still thought there was some use in resisting our handlers' instructions, and said that I would not scrub in between the tiles they themselves had dirtied for us to clean, because it was a waste of time? They said they would beat me for it, and I had no doubt that they would, and didn't particularly care. Not until two of them were holding me tightly by the arms, at any rate, but then you were screaming for them to stop, screaming louder than I was, and said “I'll take the punishment for her!” (There were always a lot of visible exclamation marks floating around your sentences.) And you did so in English and they didn't really understand, and beat me twice as hard as they'd intended to for it. My shoulder still aches when I stretch out my right arm.

See? These are the sort of things I think of when I think of you. But you're a lifeline there. Something to keep my grimdark soul from escaping me completely, although most of the trolls I've spoken to have dismissed the notion of us having souls. So instead, let's say that you saved my black heart, because I can feel my pulse with two fingers, whether you're real or not. Whether you meant what you do to me now when I think back on you.

Another Do You Remember. Do you remember how we used to sneer at the thought of ever being completely obedient? How we'd laugh hollowly under our breaths as if to say, “Fuck that, I'm spitting in my master's soup as soon as I get one.” Little rebellions like that. Well, when I was given my placement (or thrust into it, either way), I decided that I'd do things perfectly, like a charade. That would piss the living daylights out of my owner, no doubt. Who wants a slave that they can't knock about from time to time? Inventing reasons to do so without any provocation must be tiring. 

After a while, I realised that it wasn't a parody of servitude. I really can't do anything but as I'm told. Isn't that funny? I'm sure you're laughing so hard at this that your sides are splitting, so I'll add in my own written amusement: ha ha ha. I keep all the bits of psychology I remember locked up in my head, as if that somehow prevents me from falling prey to any of them. Like knowing that you have a nut allergy will stop your throat from swelling up when you bite into. . . a candy bar with nuts in, whatever one of those brands were. I think I must be an exemplary slave, being so screwed up, and none the better for realising it, for putting a name on it. Obsessive compulsive disorder makes for some sparkling floors, so there's that.

I'd like to tell you about my Mistress. She's kind. That's all that needs to be said. Not kind in the sense that she'll beat me with a branch, rather than the whole tree-trunk, but in a genuine sort of way. I've often wondered when that would come back to bite me, and I guess it's now: I'm ashamed to admit this to you, considering the monumental pile of shit you've probably spend the last two years wading your way through. I'd like to tell you that I'm beaten around on an almost daily basis (oh, and she has the sleeping pattern of a human, so that's another point in her favour. Or away from it) and that my skin comes up in a enviable swirl of green and purple bruises, but it's only happened once. And not by her. By her kismesis, who's a blue blood, by the way. I hope the one you've been lumbered with isn't like her in the least.

But she's kind. I'm telling you this because I won't tell myself. Or her. It's frustrating. I feel like I've fallen into the same trap that every slave is bound to, but at the same time, vaguely believe that I'm too conscious of what's going on for it to be a trap. It's taken too long. I've nearly been here for a sweep, and yet . . . mm-hm, you know. Nothing's happened. Not the whole of a something, anyway. But, well, this isn't important; I'll do what she says, feel what she wants me to feel, and that'll be the end of it.

We speak in English, unless guests are around. It's nice, I suppose, but I don't have much of a link with Earth anymore, and my troll-tongue wields the same sarcastic results, when I dare to belittle my conversational partner. I think my accent must have changed. I don't have any of my old neighbours, classmates, etc, around to pressure me into talking a certain way. I forget how the _a_ in words like _grass_ , _brass_ , _glass_ , etc, should come out, whether it's a hard sound or a soft one. And my Mistress, all of her _e_ s come out like _air_ s, I guess, so it'll probably rub off on me and I'll put this letter in an airnvairlope. My speech pattern might have changed, too. The troll's grammar system sets my teeth on edge and makes me forget how I used to string words together; then I read books and my think pan's so empty and susceptible to outside influence that I'll absorb anything, no matter how tawdry. 

These are the things I think about. That's how little I have rattling around my skull these days. Nothing new, nothing fresh, so it all sort of wilts away into a pretentiously banal film of dust. When I was fourteen or fifteen, maybe older, and accepted that I was going to always be a slave, I knew that my life was going to be worthless. But I never knew that it would be so _long_. What about you?

Not that you'll get this letter. Something will happen to prevent you from reading it. It'll be like that modern version of _Romeo and Juliet_ that's probably not so modern anymore, where Romeo leaves his trailer a few minutes before Juliet's letter arrives, and everything goes to hell. Not that I have the enthusiasm to kill myself as Romeo did, but you get the general dramatic appeal. You'll be swept up and off this planet by some hero in a spaceship, or maybe you'll just cobble your own ship together, because I know you probably could. You always knew too much. Always made far more out of what we were given than anyone else did. If they'd let us have a battery, a length of wire and the libations from the inside of a glow stick back in the institute, you probably could've made yourself an atomic bomb and blown Alternia to hell. Or troll-hell, which I hear is actually cooler than the surface world.

So you'll be on Earth by the time this reaches you, or doesn't, and while you're there, you should stop in on a boy called John Egbert. Who I suppose is a man now. Not that I can picture things in that way, my intellect having waned as it has, and I am narcissistic enough to imagine that the axis and time along with it has frozen because of my being gone, so he's still a bucked-tooth boy to me. But he'll be a good friend to you, and I'd like for someone to know that he's doing alright.

Apologise to him for me. I really was working on something for his birthday.


	8. Chapter 8

     When Rose has been there for a sweep, Kanaya makes a fuss.

     It's not a date that Rose actively tries to remember. To her way of thinking, marking how long she's been in her current situation isn't something that needs to be done, not something she needs to be reminded of. She certainly shouldn't counting up the sweeps; rather counting backwards, in reverse, even if estimating her lifespan is a tricky business. Still, it's hard not to be aware of the significance of the day, and so she goes to no effort to feign confusion.

     If Rose were to be in the habit of reminiscing, then she might think back on her first sweep ruled by Kanaya's fist that was less iron, and more in line with the soft, satiny fabrics she uses in her work. She might think and reflect over the way she had done her best to avert her gaze, in order to later savour and slowly take in the curves and straight lines that made up the building. Now she knows the whole of the hive so well, has cleaned every inch of it, that she could make her way around blindfolded. She would consider how she had once had no more trust in Kanaya than in the handlers who worked night in and night out to tame her, but now trusts in herself to one day begin trusting in Kanaya.

     But Rose is not set on reminiscing, so these things do not flood her mind. Nothing regarding the date does, until Kanaya makes a fuss, and sets a cage in front of her.

     There is a cloth covering the top of it, so Rose cannot see into the cage, but the fabric drapes around the distinct girth of the bars, so she identifies it easily enough. Arms folded across her chest, she raises an eyebrow, believing it her right to be perplexed. Kanaya is eager enough, subconsciously leaning forward a little, as if she herself doesn't know what's in the cage, either. Rose isn't sure whether her reluctance to reach out and pull the cloth away is because of her own apprehension with regards to what could be inside, or to build Kanaya's anticipation higher.

> A cage. Mistress, you shouldn't have. I've considered my respiteblock to be far too large and comfortable for some time, but didn't want to take the liberty of saying so.  
> Okay Now I Suppose Were Going To Discuss The Possibilities Of Fitting You Into A Cage Thats One And A Half Feet Tall And Not Much Deeper  
> Admittedly I Shouldve Seen This Coming   
> Perhaps A Box Would Have Been More Appropriate But Now I Know Better For Next Time  
> So How Are We Doing This  
> You could chop me into smaller, more manageable parts, and cram them all in.   
> I Was Just About To Suggest That  
> Shall I put the petrol in your chainsaw, Mistress?  
> Thank You Rose  
> But I Would Prefer It If You First Looked Inside   
> You Know To Become Accustomed To You New Living Arrangements  
> If you insist on doing things that way around.

     Rose kneels in front of the cage. By this point, she is long since experienced in receiving gifts from Kanaya, but no more used to it. She has her books, her pencils, her magazines, even a violin; Kanaya gave her that a few months ago but never asked her to play it, which was just like her. If she had, then when Rose picked it up and pressed it between her chin and shoulder, then she may well have stood a chance of remembering where to place her fingers against the strings to form notes, how much pressure to put upon it with the bow. When she'd tried to play alone, the violin had produced a troubling noise, a whine and a wail, and Rose hasn't touched the instrument since.

     She reaches out to the cloth slowly. Kanaya's eyes are on her, and she feels that she's being judged, rather than warmly watched over. Rose doesn't like getting gifts, because she can't do anything but assume there are ulterior motives there, even if she knows the truth is anything but that. Her brain is just hard-wired in a way that doesn't make her life or Kanaya's particularly easy. Sometimes she thinks to apologise for it, but instead she tries to make up for it in small ways. She pulls the cloth away without further ado.

     Rose doesn't know what she was expecting, as there aren't many things that could have been inside a cage. That doesn't stop the surprise from registering on her face, and she stares down at the cage as if it's not really there at all, and there's simply a gaping hole in the floor in its place. A noise comes from inside, a different sort of wail and a whine that doesn't set her teeth on edge, and Rose wonders how she didn't hear it before this very moment.

> ... Mistress?  
> What Is It Rose  
> While I realise that trolls have their own unique dietary requirements, I sincerely hope this isn't what you expect me to prepare for tonight's dinner.  
> And While Humans Have Their Own Unique Reactions To Certain Alternian Animals I Sincerely Hope That Your First Thought Wasnt To Eat It  
> Far from it.

     Rose is still tilting her head this way and that at the small kitten curled up in one corner of the cage, watching her with wide, attentive eyes. She clears her throat awkwardly, trying to conjure up the part of her that should be driven to _oooh_ ing and _awwww_ ing by a bundle of something so unquestionably cute, and though she's moved in some way, remains quite silent. She wonders why cats are cats on Alternia, rather than purrbeasts or hairball creatures.

> I'm not going to eat you. Don't worry, I've already had breakfast today.  
> Oh She Is Very Reassured Just Look At That Smile Rose  
> All two of them.

     The cage opens without a creak when Rose unfastens the latch. She knows better than to bother Kanaya with intentionally obtuse questions by now, and doesn't look a giftcat in the mouth, so to speak. Rose drops a careful hand into the cage, and is surprised she remembers how to act so tenderly towards any creature. Her life is a monotonous drivel of scrubbing and scouring and cooking and her hands are calloused, but the tiny creature cautiously raises her head, sniffing curiously at one finger. She's very young, probably can't be much older than a few weeks, if Alternian cats age and grow in the same way that Earthly ones do.

     Rose scrunches up her face. All of a sudden, she doesn't know how to make the appropriate expression and feels humiliated for having Kanaya watching her flounder. Rose grinds her teeth together, the kitten bumps her forehead against the backs of her fingers, and the tension in her jaw breaks out into stilted, tepid laughter. Not cold, for once. Kanaya reaches out, placing one hand on Rose's shoulder so that she can swoop down and pet the kitten in turn.

     In that instant, in between blinks, Rose pictures a lot of things. She sees the kitten beside her as she scrubs the floor, batting at the soap bubbles and becoming increasingly confused when her shimmery prey disappear the moment she gets her claws on them. She sees her scrambling over every surface in the nourishblock, scuttling between pots and pans and knocking cutlery onto the floor, nearly falling into a boiling pot in an effort to reach the fish Rose has just dropped into it. In the garden, she pounces energetically onto the bugs, the flowers caught in the breeze, and wears herself out far too quickly, nestling down in the shadow of Rose's toolbox as she works four hours and hours without rest. And then she's a cat, still by her side, curled up on her lap in the night, making the bedsheets droop under her weight as Rose reads, idly scratching behind her ears.

     It's not much, hardly anything at all, but it marks the first time in what may be forever that Rose has actually looked to her future, and more than that, it's been positive. She should probably feel more despondent than ever that a mere cat is all she has to make it feel as if her life continues on for some sort of reason, but she can't even bring herself to make light of her own fleeting daydreams. She picks up the kitten, holding her to her chest, feeling her tail flick back and forth against the back of her wrist.

> She Seems Rather Taken With You  
> Do You Like Her  
> Oh, yes, Mistress. She's beautiful.

*

     Ever since being taken from Earth, but especially since she became Kanaya's slave, Rose's life has been akin to climbing a craggy rock face.

     She is a rock climber, a slope scaler, a cliff traverser, slowly but surely making her way up an unforgiving canvas that's so steep at times it isn't merely vertical. She feels herself incline backwards, even as she grips on tightly. It is a cliff at sea, hundreds of feet tall, if not thousands. When she first arrives at the base of it, she looks up, and is blinded by the sun that peeks over the top. She thinks to herself that she'll never reach the summit, but the tide is lapping at her ankles, and so she knows there's nothing for it but to climb.

     Rose is slow, at first. Inexperienced and uncertain of herself, but if she doesn't pick up speed, the sea soon will. The rocks are rough on her hands, drying them out, and her toes keep slipping. Loose rocks fall from beneath her feet, and no matter how the cliff threatens to expel her into the sea below, Rose never looks back. She wants to know how close the rising waters are, and if there are cutting rocks below to meet her, should she descend, but she never looks back, lest it seems like she wants to take the plunge. After a time, Rose realises she must be halfway up. She can't tell how she knows, because she's pressed so flat to the rock that when she looks up, all she sees is more cliff; not sky.

     There's a ledge jutting out at this halfway point. Rose clambers onto it, hands and knees pressing to the flat ground beneath her, and she can't wrap her head around the horizontal. She sits, back rested against the cliff, arms around her knees, and at once she's taking in the extent wounds. Her fingers and toes are bloody and torn hands and feet not much better, and all of her body is covered in a littering of bruises from loose rocks that have fallen from the cliff and almost taken her down with them. After some time, she realises that there's a shallow puddle of water by her feet, though she doesn't remember it raining. Surely she would've felt that.

     Rose washes the blood and dirt, caked into her skin in equal quantities, from her hands and feet, and notices that her skin feels rougher. There are more lines there than there were before. She looks out to the sea, finally, and notices that it's stopped rising. It's a long, long way beneath her and doesn't look as if it could be much deeper than a pool, from this height.

     She doesn't rest for long, knowing that she has to keep moving. She's already taken enough risks in a break like this. Up Rose goes, and the cliff face only becomes harder to scale, more treacherous. What looks like a rock she can take hold of crumbles in her grasp like sand, and when she takes hold of the thick, tough looking roots and long grasses, they wilt between her fingers. She has to move from side to side, sometimes going down before she can proceed any further, and she has moved so much from her initial starting point that when she looks down, she can no longer see the ledge she rested upon.

     Rose shakes her head, knowing it doesn't matter. Her bones may ache and her muscles may be weary, but she doesn't think she could stop, even if she reached the top. If there is a top. She's starting to believe that this cliff will go on forever, that she goes in circles, sometimes climbing downwards, and then the sea becomes the rain that she never feels. In that way, the top and the bottom are as indistinct from one another as the sea and the sky are when there are no ships or sun to cut the two in half.

     Onward she goes, until it begins to storm. She hears none of the thunder, sees none of the lightning, and tastes no rain on the tip of her tongue, but she knows that it's there. She's felt the pressure building in the air for days, weeks, months. There is a tremulous feel to the cliff, like it all might crack and give itself over to a landslide. She knows that she doesn't have long, even if she never had much time at all to begin with. She climbs. The rock face crumbles beneath her hands, becomes soft and clay-like when sprayed by ocean waves that are rightly too far below to affect it, and every time she almost slips and falls, Rose's heart pounds against the inside of her ribs. Every time. The effect never lessens, and she never fears for her life, or an imitation of it, any less: it's all real to her.

     And then she does it. She reaches up, thinks that she'll feel the dry, arid rock hot beneath her hand, but is rewarded by a handful of grass. There is no energy left in her body, but she forces herself to move, powered by the lungful of air that she barely manages to drink down. Pulling herself up with a final heave, Rose reaches the top of the cliff and rolls onto the grass, landing with such force that her bones almost jolt out of place.

     There is sun on her face. She's no longer in the cliff's shadow. It's warm but unfamiliar, and she raises her hands, shielding herself against it. It's so bright that she can't yet see around her, and so doesn't dare to move more than is required to breathe, because she fears she might roll and tumble from the grassy ledge she's found herself on.

     Slowly, her eyes adjust, one-by-one. She spreads out her hands, fingers easing away from one another like branches of a tree stretched out, and then moves her hands away altogether when the clear blue sky doesn't cause the backs of her eyes to burn. Rose looks around, and barely even has it within herself to let her heart sink when she sees another cliff, taller than the first. Birds circle around this one, making their nests there. Rose knows that they won't let her pass.

     She uses a hand to push herself to her feet, and sees that there are two options available to her. Two, because she won't entertain the notion of remaining where she is: she cannot deal with an in-between place where her every nerve stands on end. She could scale the cliff, though her fingers are almost worked to the bone, and risk finding a third cliff at its peak. Or she could take her chances and jump out into the sea.

     She could also realise that acting like there's any choice to be made is utter bullshit, because she's already running towards the edge, arms swinging at her sides, feet suddenly not pounding against grass anymore.

     She's free.

     For a moment, Rose doesn't fall. She is in the air, above it all. The cliffs are behind her, out of sight, and so they may as well not exist. The sea is so very far beneath her that it doesn't register as a threat. For a millisecond, every drop of logic in her body is converted to bliss, and she truly believes that she'll never fall.

     But she does, and like a stone.

     The wind rushes past her, her clothes are pulled askew. She reaches out desperately, trying to grasp at anything, but there is only the salty air to cling to. The fall's so long that she begins to think coherently, begins to wonder how on earth she climbed so high, and how long it's taken to get to that point. How easily she's thrown it all away. Then, as the waves take a more distinct form beneath her, Rose wonders why the adrenaline rush hasn't killed her yet.

     She hits the water. The surface breaks, but she doesn't.

     It doesn't so much as sting her skin. She's managed to remember to hold her breath, and so the bubbling water doesn't rush into her mouth. And strangely, there's no discomfort there, even though she can't tell her head from her tail or black from white. It doesn't even occur to her that she needs to come up for breath. It's like a passing thought, something she can get around to at her own pace. She twists and swirls with the strong current of the water, sees the waves above her cause the surface to foam white at the top, and she is pushed and pulled in every direction. It washes over her, all around her, warm in spite of everything she was expecting.

     She lets go of her self, but knows that it isn't very far behind. She can reach out and reclaim it at any time.

     Her skin buzzes. She forgets how many limbs she has. Two legs at one moment, and then a third in between them. Four legs, two wrapped around her hips. And then similarly, another two arms, encircling her waist. She's not down in the ocean alone, has never been left here to cast away. Rose's fingers tangle in something. Not seaweed with coral caught in it, but soft hair and sturdy horns. The warmth around her isn't the sea at all, but rather Kanaya's lips on her skin, her collarbone, her stomach, lower still, making her need to hold her breath. She never drowns. Never struggles for air, never fights to find the surface.

     Whenever it becomes overwhelming, Kanaya rises up, lips pressing against Rose's, breathing into her. And Rose's lips are red here, not the horrible blue of her dreams; or maybe black, a little. Rose remembers catching Kanaya off-guard, remembers that much, and she hadn't had time to prepare herself.

     In those moments, twisting together under the sea, Kanaya makes Rose feel that her body is good for something other than working herself to the point of exhaustion around the hive in jerky, rigid movements. She flows. Her hands instinctively know where to go, her body knows how to bend and arch, though she doesn't recall ever acquiring the knowledge in the first place.

     Once it's over, once the sea begins to drain, Rose swims to the surface that's drawing ever closer, breaking out into the cool night air.

     Also known as coming up from under her blanket.

     Her eyes are wide, dry. She can't remember how to blink, and she inhales through her nose for a long, long time, as if she's never planning on letting the breath out. Turning onto her side, Rose pulls the cover up around her, feeling that she was right, long ago, about there being something to be ashamed of under her plain, shapeless grey outfit. She feels as if she should wear it again, as if she should be wearing it right now.

     But before she can make a move, Kanaya's hands are on her shoulders. Rose remains perfectly still, stares at the wall, and wonders how long the quiet can persist for. It certainly isn't silent, because she hears Kanaya's breath come heavily, though it's far more subdued than moments before, hears the bed cover shift as the two of them make minute movements. Rose runs her tongue across her dry lips, tastes Kanaya, and wants the mattress to tear in two and swallow her whole, like the sea failed to.

     Remarkably, though, she's still there with Kanaya. She's stood her ground. Kanaya's arms wrap around her waist, and she doesn't flinch, doesn't tear herself away. She finally remembers how to screw her eyes shut, and leans back against Kanaya. It's comfortable. More comfortable than her empty bed, and she hates that; hates that she didn't hate this, hates herself for wanting to have hated it. It's a complex cycle. Rose wishes her own thoughts could desist for just a moment. If she focuses hard enough, the sound of her heartbeat and the blood pumping through her ears is almost enough to drown them out. One in particular thought stands out, though: Well, what were you expecting when you dragged your mistress back to your block and kissed her like that?

     Rose lies as still as she knows how, and doesn't escape from this in the usual way. Or what she would've thought would be the usual way, had this ever happened before. She doesn't think of Jade. She waits patiently for Kanaya to speak up, but when she doesn't, decides to preempt whatever it is she might have to say.

> Can this be one of those things that we don't talk about? Ever.  
> If Thats The Way It Has To Be For You To Remain Comfortable

     Rose nods slowly, almost moved to thank Kanaya. She does relax, after a fashion: she allows her hands to wander, fingers tracing lines over the parts of Kanaya's arms that cross her waist, and when Kanaya kisses the corner of her jaw, just beneath her ear, Rose doesn't feel that it's too inappropriate. She pretends that they aren't on Alternia at all, that this is Earth, and she's normal. Her mind isn't constantly clouded, her sense hasn't been torn to shreds and rearranged by handlers and keepers to better suit their purposes, and she is just a twenty year-old young woman in the arms of another. But Kanaya is still a troll in this fantasy, because even with her eyes closed, Rose can still make out her glow. But that's alright, because Kanaya would like it on Earth. She'd fit in there. She'd have all the company she could ever want during the day, hundreds upon thousands of people to appreciate fashion with her. Kanaya's never seemed to fit in amongst the others, Rose muses. She doesn't have the vicious streak.

> Would You Prefer It If I Returned To My Respiteblock  
> No. I've already made myself comfortable for the night.  
> If Youre Certain  
> Please Let Me Know If That Changes Rose  
> Mm-hm. The glow is a little distracting, though.  
> Unfortunately Nothing Can Be Done About That It Is Simply The Way I Am  
> In The Same Way I Suppose That You Cant Help But Keep Stretching Your Legs Out And Knocking The End Of Your Bed Cover Off Of My Feet  
> But No I Guess Thats Not As Distracting As A Glow  
> So I Apologise For That But Must Point Out How Bizarre These Human Beds Are Whilst Being Oddly Comfortable   
> Almost Like Being Wrapped In A Cocoon  
> You said you wanted to know what I think about you. Does that still stand?   
> Right Now  
> Right now.  
> Um  
> Well There Is No Time Like The Present Though I Will Admit I Am Somewhat Apprehensive Considering What Has Just Unfolded  
> I think you're naïve. Still. I think you've lived too much of your life in the desert, away from the bulk of your race, and as such, you don't fit in properly among them. It's not a bad thing. Not by my standards, at any rate. But you're naïve and chronically and irreparably stupid if you think that you can save me. I am not here to be saved by you, Mistress. Nor do I want to be. I am here to work, and even if I don't work, I know you'll forever be giving me orders. Relax. Get some sleep. Take some time to yourself. Go out and do as you please. Orders. You'll never be satisfied not giving them out, now that we've been like this for so long, and it doesn't matter whether they're for my own benefit or for the benefit of your hive. I don't think you'll ever understand that.  
> Because you're so goddamn insistent on saving me. I'm not a lost soul, Mistress. I'm a girl who was taken from her home and forced into slavery, and that's the long and short of it. There's nothing to romanticise there. There's no single thing that's going to suddenly make me go back to the way I could've been. No matter how you insist, I— well. I resent you for it a lot. You make me feel as if I have it too good, as if I should punish myself for that by pushing you away. I still don't know if I want you close, or if I want you to be gone. All I know is that this doesn't feel bad, which in itself is unnerving. I could make a life out of this, here. Not much of one, but it'd be better than the empty, worthless one I have at the moment.  
> I don't hate you. In another time and place and another world, we could've been friends. More. You're kind. You're pathologically thoughtful to the extent that sometimes, I think you must be able to read my mind. You don't ask for anything in return, and even when you order me about, I think that it's for my own good. You are attractive, painfully so, and I don't just think that because you're the only face I ever get to see these days.   
> But I can't work out if I think these things freely. If I think anything freely. Maybe I'm just grasping onto my only chance of survival. Then again, if I never spoke a word to you and never came close enough to touch, you wouldn't turn against me. So I have a choice here.  
> Sometimes I wish that I wasn't given one.   
> Oh  
> I  
> Really Wasnt Expecting That Much

     Kanaya buries her face in the back of Rose's shoulder, arms wrapping around her tightly. Rose, in turn, buries the side of her face into the pillow, exhausted more from the speech than by what came before it. She doesn't want or need Kanaya to say anything, and Kanaya seems to sense this. Rose can tell that she's holding her tongue, distracting herself by pressing feather-light kisses to her shoulder blade.

> It was. I'm sorry. It probably would've been quicker to talk about the sex.  
> Hmmm I Dont Believe That Much Needs To Be Said On That Subject  
> Indeed.  
> Would You Do Something For Me  
> ...  
> Unrelated To The Aforementioned Activities Of A Sexual Nature  
> Of course, Mistress.  
> Call Me Kanaya  
> Mistress?  
> Not Necessarily Now  
> In Your Own Time  
> When You Feel Comfortable Doing So  
> Yes, Mistress.

     The glow doesn't distract Rose as much as she first made out it would. Kanaya's body pressed up against hers isn't so unusual a feeling that it prevents her from sleeping, and Rose drifts off faster than she she expected to. It's the exhaustion that does it, not the warmth, not the comfort. She feels Zazzerpan's paws pad against the covers between their bodies, and the three of them are on Earth, drifting away from the land of the waking, washed up safe on the shore.

*

     It must be nearing midday. Rose can't say for certain. The sun is at its highest point in the sky, but is nothing but a coloured blur through the covering of a bright blue umbrella above her. A dark season is fast approaching, and being out in the middle of the day is at last tolerable again. The sweat does not pour from her as it would a few weeks ago, doesn't drip down her face and sting the corners of her eyes. She is relaxing, or something close to it. She has a blanket spread out, which she lies upon with a book and a bottle of water, Zazzerpan at her feet, hopping around as if she hasn't already been there for two months, as if the garden is something brand new to her.

     Rose smiles. She's glad that one of them possesses that sort of enthusiasm.

     It's easy to imagine herself in another situation. Easy to pretend that the great hive behind her is a house, one belonging to her, where she lives alone, with the exception of Zazzerpan and another few cats. The garden is her own, and she tends to it at her leisure, because she's in the right sort of climate where things just fall into place. Rose turns the page in her book, a troll novel that she's been lent about pirates, who are remarkably similar to those from the stories she remembers back on Earth.

     Kanaya's shadow covers her, along with that of the umbrella, creating an odd sort of shape, like Kanaya has an unusually large head. Rose pretends not to notice, so as not to tense and cringe.

> Oh Rose There You Are I Have Been Looking All Over The Hive For You  
> I Was Worried That Something Had Happened   
> For Example You Tripped On Your Way Down To The Cellar   
> Its Been A While Since I Found You Unconscious And I Feel That Its Bound To Happen Again  
> But Here You Are So My Worrying Has Subsided Somewhat  
> Good morning, Mistress.  
> Afternoon Actually  
> Speaking Of Which Is Lunch Not On The Menu Today  
> Hmm? Oh, doesn't look like it.

     The proceeding moments are tense. Rose wants to curl up into a ball and burrow her way under her blanket, because this is it; this is her finally putting her foot down and going against one of Kanaya's orders. Against the routine. It's at least half an hour since lunch was due, and Rose hasn't found herself in the kitchen since breakfast time. All in all, it's the most difficult thing she's ever had to do since arriving on Alternia. Kanaya would be well within her rights to strike her, but Rose's shoulders slouch somewhat, because she knows that she won't.

> I See If Thats How Things Are I Will Just  
> Go And Make My Own Lunch  
> In That Case  
> Very good, Mistress.

     Kanaya hums into the air like she wants to ask a question, and sounds incredibly perplexed. She makes her way back to the hive without another word, though, and by the time she comes back, tray in hand, two lunches placed upon it, Rose is on her knees in the dirt, frantically digging away at the vegetables that are just about ready to be harvested. She mumbles under her breath, says terrible things about herself, and already her shirt is damp with sweat. She can't believe what she's done. Can't believe that she so blatantly ignored orders like that.

     She wants to throw up, and the heat isn't helping. It's torture, directly under the sun.

     Placing the lunch tray down on the blanket Rose has folded out, Kanaya kneels next to her, one hand on her shoulder. This doesn't stop Rose in her tracks, and she digs and digs at the dirt, deeper than any vegetables have actually taken root, desperate to make up for the slight. But then she feels as if she's mocking Kanaya's intelligence in expecting her to let it slide, because she's very clearly not doing as was requested of her in the first place. She can't blind Kanaya with any odd bit of work she does.

> There There Rose Its Alright  
> We Dont Currently Require Any More Vegetables   
> I Made Sure Of That Just Now In The Nourishblock   
> Lets Allow These Ones To Reach Maturity  
> Put The Spade Down Rose I Would Like It If You Ate Lunch With Me

     With a trembling hand, Rose reaches out, dropping the spade into the ground. It falls blade first, landing in the dirt with a satisfying shift of the soil. Kanaya's hand moves up from her shoulder, traces a path up the back of her neck, and briefly tangles in the tips of her hair. Rose squints through the sun, turns to look at her, and sees her smile.

> That Was A Considerable Act Of Defiance Rose  
> I Am Quite Pleased  
> Small Steps Hmmm

     The corners of Rose's lips twitch. She relocates herself on the blanket, if only because the sun has suddenly decided to be relentless in beating down upon her back, and sits with her knees against her chest, staring down at the food. Zazzerpan rolls on her back, batting up at Kanaya's fingers as she reaches out for her share of the lunch.

     Rose thinks that she could hate this, and it wouldn't take any effort at all on her part. The normalcy of it all, the way that this is her life now, this is all she has, and that won't change; it's been like this for as long as she can remember. But much to her surprise, she doesn't over-analyse it. Doesn't analyse it at all, actually, because it's been a good twenty minutes since she last sipped on her water and she must be dehydrated. Things are what they are, and Rose thinks that if she could feel this way every day, if she could chip off small pieces of herself but sweep them under a rug, safe for another time, only to later to return to them and realise that she's still whole, then she might be able to tolerate this life.

> Small steps, Mistress Kanaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Sort of! Not really! When I first showed this fic to somebody, we both agreed that one of the weaknesses that came with writing from such a limited point of view, centring around Rose, was that we don't really get to see what's going on in Kanaya's head. Because it's all from Rose's perspective, Kanaya comes off worse than she often is, and none of the 'behind the scenes,' so to speak, parts are elaborated on. Naturally, this means that I started on a follow-up fic that runs before, during and after _Seam by Seam_ , focused on how Kanaya deals with it all, and ties up all the loose ends here – what happens between Kanaya and Vriska, how Jade plays into it all, and what eventually becomes of Rose beyond this story. It's not quite finished yet, as I have little time to write at the moment, but with any luck, it should be finished and posted within two or three weeks!
> 
> Additionally, there's some backstory [here](http://sunbreaksdown.tumblr.com/post/11269427166/ending-spoilers) and [here](http://sunbreaksdown.tumblr.com/post/11223664500/weird-ships-dont-feature-in-the-fic-but-theyre), over on tumblr.
> 
> And lastly, I would just like to say thank you for all the views, comments, kudos, likes, reblogs and art that I've got thus far. I've been so utterly pleased with the reaction this story has got, and I can't say how much I appreciate it all.


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